The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Thursday, December 8, 2022

[If someone comes]

If someone comesfrom afarwith a languagethat maybe seals offits soundswith a mare’s whinnyorthe chirpingof young blackbirdsorlike a gnashing saw that severseverything in reach—If someone comesfrom afarmoving like a dogormaybe a ratand it’s winterdress him warmlyfor who knowshis feet may be on fire(perhaps he rode inon a meteor)so don’t scold himif your rug, riddled with holes,screams—A stranger always hashis homeland in his armslike an orphanfor whom he may be seeking nothingbut a grave.

--Nelly Sachs

Translated by Joshua Weiner with Linda B. Parshall 

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