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Half the people in the world love the other half, 
	half the people hate the other half.
Must I because of this half and that half go wandering 
	and changing ceaselessly like rain in its cycle, 
	must I sleep among rocks, and grow rugged like 
	the trunks of olive trees,
and hear the moon barking at me,
and camouflage my love with worries,
and sprout like frightened grass between the railroad 
	tracks,
and live underground like a mole,
and remain with roots and not with branches, and not 
	feel my cheek against the cheek of angels, and 
	love in the first cave, and marry my wife 
	beneath a canopy of beams that support the earth,
and act out my death, always till the last breath and 
	the last words  and without ever understandig,
and put flagpoles on top of my house and a bob shelter 
	underneath.  And go out on rads made only for 
	returning and go through all the apalling 
	stations—cat,stick,fire,water,butcher, 
	between the kid and the angel of death?
Half the people love,
half the people hate.
And where is my place between such well-matched halves, 
	and through what crack will I see the white housing 
	projects of my dreams and the bare foot runners 
	on the sands or, at least, the waving of a girl's 
	kerchief, beside the mound?


Translated by Chana Bloch And Stephen Mitchell


Submitted by Angelica Rodriguez

Added: 16 Feb 2003 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 7:32 PM | Viewed: 9283 times

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