The poem
Toothed eyes fly Over still waters
Around us purple lips Flutter from branches
Screams hit the blue And fall onto pillows
Our homes hide Behind narrow backs
Hands clutch at Flimsy clouds
Our veins roll turbid Bed and tables
Of shattered bones Noon has fallen into our hands
And turned all gloomy
An open grave on the face of the earth On your face on my face
Trans. by Anne Pennington