The roads have come to their end now,
they don’t go any farther, they turn here,
over on the earth there.
You can’t go any farther if you don’t want
to go to the moon or the planets. Stop now
in time, and turn a wasp’s nest or a cow track,
a volcano opening or a clatter of stones in the woods—
it’s all the same.

They won’t go any farther as I’ve said
without changing, the engine to horseshoes,
the gear shift to a fir branch
which you hold loose in your hand
—what the hell is this?

translated by Robery Bly