Martin McKinsey, Translator
At night, large ships sail past
all lit up, furrowing the horizon with deep
presentiments of sorrow. How quiet it is
in the chambers of memory! The cheap hotel,
the iron bed-frame, the cigarette butts on the stairs,
an antique candlestick on the wash-stand.
When you looked out the window to the west,
there were stars in the small sky, and a bicycle
propped against a wall. The next morning,
it poured rain. You hadn't slept all night.
But still you lingered, hoping that Diotima
would show herself in the depths of the mirror.