poetry texts, poem archive at plagiarist.com

It is life in slow motion,
it's the heart in reverse,
it's a hope-and-a-half:
too much and too little at once.

It's a train that suddenly
stops with no station around,
and we can hear the cricket,
and, leaning out the carriage

door, we vainly contemplate
a wind we feel that stirs
the blooming meadows, the meadows
made imaginary by this stop.


Translated by A. Poulin

Added: 2 Mar 2002 | Last Read: 7 Sep 2008 11:27 PM | Viewed: 3006 times

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