Lying on his back under tall trees
he is also up there. He rills into thousands of twigs and branches,
is swayed back and forth,
as if in a catapult seat outflung in slow motion.
Standing down by the jetties he squints across the waters.
The docks ages sooner than men.
Made of splintered silver gray planks, and with stones in their
bellies.
The blinding light rips its way straight through.
Sailing all day in an open boat
over the glittering bights,
he will fall asleep at last inside a blue lamp
while islands like great nocturnal moths creep over the glass.
Translation by May Swenson
The man lying on his back under the high
trees
is up there too. He rills out in thousandfold twigs,
sways to and fro,
sits in an ejector seat that releases in slow motion.
The man down by the jetties narrows his
eyes at the water.
The jetties grow old more quickly than people.
They have silver grey timber and stones in their stomachs.
The blinding light beats right in.
The man traveling all day in an open
boat
over the glittering straits
Will sleep at last inside a blue lamp
while the islands creep like large moths across the glass.
Translation by Robert Fulton
The man who lies on his back under huge
trees
is also up in them. He branches out into thousands of tiny branches.
He sways back and forth,
he sits in a catapult chair that hurtles forward in slow motion.
The man who stands down at the dock screws
up his eyes against the water.
Docks get older faster than men.
They have silver-gray posts and boulders in their gut.
The dazzling light drives straight in.
The man who spends the whole day in an
open boat
moving over the luminous bays
will fall asleep at last inside the shade of his blue lamp
as the islands crawl like huge moths over the globe.
Translation by Robert Bly