TRANSLATING ROBERT BLY
We start to burn
as we are born.The barn boards
exhale wheat breath.We are born knowing
all we need to get by.The lake, half in shadow,
is a coffin or cave.Living is an art but
Dying is a saxophone.The horses in the dark field
will be us in their next life.The gate in the fence swings open.
We are on the road we were meant for.