There a wind endures that I remember
kindled in the manes of horses
racing aslant across the plains, a wind
that stains and scars the sandstone
and the heart of mournful telamones toppled
on the grass. Aged soul, grey with rancor
return to that wind, breathe in
the delicate musk that clothes
the giants cast down by heaven.
How alone in the space that's left to you!
And more do you grieve if still you hear
the sound that drifts toward the sea
where Hesperus trails at early morn
the jew's harp's melanchonic twang
in the throat of the cartman
who slowly ascends the moon-cleansed hill
mid the murmur of moorish olive trees.
translation by Prof. Micheal Campo
Trinity College-Hartford CT