Translated by C. M. Nairn
Burn the green sward of conviction;
pluck the buds of gay desires. Ask fierce winds to scatter
the petals of laughing dreams. Smash passion's ardent cup;
spill the heady wine of hope's deceit. Then, from Time's hands, take the cup brimming with life's poison, and drink. In this fashion die each day, and each day continue to live.
IN THE UNFINISHED CITY
When morning cast its glittering net,
half-unseen dreams hid themselves
in the ebb of night. And half-felt feelings,
wrapped in ragged wounds,
came out on grief square,
beggars led by scared hopes.
Half worked-out thoughts, parched, exhausted,
covered with an ambiguous dust,
dragged themselves down harsh streets.
And dealers in half-made humankind
primly pulled up their shutters of half-vision,
then started haggling over the price
of not quite so perfect values.