TRANSLATING ROBERT BLY
We start to burn
as we are born.
The barn boards
exhale wheat breath.
We are born knowing
all we need to get by.
The lake, half in shadow,
is a coffin or cave.
Living is an art but
Dying is a saxophone.
The horses in the dark field
will be us in their next life.
The gate in the fence swings open.
We are on the road we were meant for.
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