To say you and I is to enter the circus
on the flank a ballerina keeping time. The air
transports autumns from one place to another, the year
has no origin. The yellow daisy
shines in two eyes. Van Gogh’s ear
falls to the pavement like the sun: an innocent
slash interrupts the trilling of a bird. This is true
in the north. It may be false in the south. In effect
(or in the flight of a cormorant), of which bird do you speak?
Of the cormorant and its lingering flight above the heavens,
which takes on a purple tone, pure in the afternoon and in the night
God only knows. But to insist on you and I at this height
in the river, in the Nile where the weavers weave, is
to unravel the skein with some scissors, to stop hearing
the tumult of sound, that underbrush.
Eduardo Milán (born 1952) Uruguay
Translated by Patrick Madden & Steven Stewart, and by John Oliver Simon
The Selected Poems of Eduardo Milán, Edited by Antonio Ochoa, Shearsman Books, 2012
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