The Hoarse Lute

We were the soft crumble of the earth whenever
the tall trees said to the soil: 'It is I' —
like the brushing of the coquettish nightingale, in
the leaves of a clear day, a wing grown heavy;
the wound drips, and he forgets his tears,
and takes care lest he wet the branches.

Our case is like the melody's: when the echo came back,
the lute disowned the singing of the deep night.
The lute boasts — yet but for a hoarseness
gone drunk within the lute, would there have been song?
You, about me, are a player's arm
that receives me and forgets what ails us.

Wish the night joy, and bring me my tears;
the handkerchief has forgotten those eyes.
And today I return, in the plaint of sorrow,
holding back my tears — because I am I!!