The hope a mooncalf follows
is sacrifice for slaughter,
and yet the wings of swallows
still skip across the water. 

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Last Spring

 
Take the forsythias deep within, each leaf,
and when the lilac blossoms on the lawn,
mix it, too, with your blood and joy and grief,
the dark soil that you depend upon.
 
Sluggish days. All have been gotten through.
And if you do not ask: the start or close,
then perhaps the hours will carry you
as distantly as June's unfolding rose.
 
 
After the German of Gottfried Benn (1886-1956)
translated by Leo Yankevich
first appeared in Trinacria 
 
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© by Leo Yankevich
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