translated by:Peter Boreas
from Across the Fields”
We were the ships, we were built, we departed.
Wine drew us between the columns, a straight course of sweet discourse.
Wood that bent against petrified bones. And always the question who
We were when all was said. I saw the columns, rooms,
Without a centre, weeping ruins. Mother, someone has to be first,
Recount the battle, cover the war and weep on marble.