POEM OF UNATTAINABLE TRANQUILITY

Life is like this, my friend, without tranquility,
remote and lonely.
              (What we get out of bed with
in the clear daylight is all there is
for us of light and hope).

The quick pulse of our blood beats
in a pleasant flow; a glimpse
caught of the joy of things
is as much as I want of the hunger for life.

But there is no fulfilled life, it is so shadowy,
so unrelenting —and yet so beautiful when hidden in mist.
Where will I find it if passion interposes barriers of sorrow in the path ? In the night we sing ,

we open conduits for our blood—
it ebbs away, leaving us
with dry and empty hearts. And the earth
turns yellow without men's sweat.

Toward an impossible life without tranquility,
we move with hatred ; the road is long.
We are weary , and it is sad
to die on stones under the lash of the wind.

We confuse the road we travel and life itself
toward which we move «as the river to the sea»:

In the midst of iron and marble and spittle,
we remain hopelessly bereaved of love.

Never to arrive is the goal!
                            Without tranquility
man seeks with words for life,
and feeds on angry voices,
on bitter echoes...