the cat creeps slowly
across the length of the bed
looks for safe haven
to rest his tired body
sighs before closing his eyes

love is a total waste of time
you and I know that

but there’s something about its madness
that opens the eyes and clears the mind

translated by David Young

I send my heart out
wrapped in tissue paper
a bow on top
the emotions spring forth
a river overflowing
these feelings I have
when your image appears
on the street before me
the way your eyes shine
when you tell an amusing story
the tilt of your head
when in conversation
your smile when you dance
your bold assertions
leave me without air
to twist and turn
unable to express
what must remain unspoken
and thus reduced to words
my inner character exposed
in what I write
in what I do
but never in what I say
I speak through fictional poses
to the one who exists
in my mind
hoping somehow you’ll hear
the song in my heart

it’s like walking underwater
one is tired
even before one begins
but there is this image
just out of reach
that sustains me
and though for every two
I lose one
I keep moving
like a lens
that keeps focusing
I am drawn forward
your face before me
the light in your eyes
a promise unspoken
hope realized

Taking off my gloves, my hands stop–
what is it?
a memory flits through my mind

translated by Hiroaki Sato

curled up
on your side of the bed
nothing exposed
walls
so high I cannot scale
trenches
so deep I cannot cross
there is nothing to say
that hasn’t been said
and much left unanswered
it will be cold here
tomorrow
but not as cold as
tonight
something died
though long before I noticed
and I will be left alone
to bury it
in the morning

My hands have a gift for art, Master
My language for cursing, my heart for pain
Is death all I get
All I get, Master?

Which way is love, Master
Which way is grief
Is solitude all I get
All I get, Master?

Which way is away, Master
Which way is home
Is longing all I get
All I get, Master?

translated by Şehnaz Tahir-Gürçağlar

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

The rose
was not searching for the sunrise:
almost eternal on its branch,
it was searching for something else.

The rose
was not searching for darkness or science:
borderline of flesh and dream,
it was searching for something else.

The rose
was not searching for the rose.
Motionless in the sky
it was searching for something else.

translated by Robert Bly