TRANSLATIONS: ENGLISH

STUDIO

Brush lacking hand. The rooflike
Mountains rest on the children. The car
Is a blot of paint from the past.

There is neither waking nor
Sleeping or slumbering at the piano.
The journeys smoulder in your ashes. Lost

Your paintings, your desk, all
That you were. What seemed unending
Passed. White canvases remained,

A rigid line of snow against
The wall. Nothing, just your voice,
A distant murmur on the

Answering machine. A memory
Of a time when the days did not
Count and your eyes might still

Sparkle like the wine from Ronda,
Gran Reserva. Thus you drank
Down life, to the dregs.

>>