Translated by Barbara Mann
Now that dying creeps throughout
and the pecans are bursting their shells,
I cover inside Hebrew.
Nothing will befall me in harmless writing.
Nothing will befall me
if I’m absorbed into the letters,
if I don’t go outdoors the road—
shrunk to a small dot
stuffed inside an O
or into the stomach of a C,
a semicolon dripping tears
like a captive.
Beloved holy tongue,
now that all the things is in its personal time
and all the things now could be horror,
when the orchard stretches out
and the earth is plowed,
I do solely what Rilke says:
let magnificence and terror occur to me
with out pondering
that that is my finish.