some day someone will
once again write poetry
dedicate a song
their book to me and next time
I won’t let her slip away

Of course, we must die.
How else will the world be rid of
the old telephone numbers
we cannot forget.

The numbers
it would be foolish–
utterly useless—
to call.

Don’t come to me with the entire truth.
Don’t bring the ocean if I feel thirsty,
nor heaven if I ask for light;
but bring a hint, some dew, a particle,
as birds carry only drops away from water,
and the wind a grain of salt.

translated by Robert Bly

Midwinter. Snow.
I gave the birds a piece of bread.
And it didn’t affect my sleep.

translated by Robert Bly