He knows nothing of temples
on which he sleeps
knows not
who the cicadas are
knows not of forgetting and tenderness
and what
is truely music
knows not of last steps
reconciliation
and death
He knows of bread
and oil and wine,
of the sacredness of his animals
and sometimes at night the gods enter
his austere face
as if
to seek warmth
in a withered age
and in their reflection
Translated by Renate Latimer (Beacons, A Magazine of Literary Translations)
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