I have lain down on the filthy floor,

My head leaning against the wall.

The pain… perhaps stronger

Than my poem?

I have been trying to recall the smile of my mother.

What I would like to do is pour

These poems over her soul,

This sobbing which has already lost its form.

Lord, now I own nothing else, and I will go along

With owning your face.

Because of this only I have been able to endure it all:

On bread and water.
 

Translated by Robert Bly