translation by Patty Crane
From July ’90
It was a funeral
and I sensed the dead man
was reading my thoughts
better than I could.
The organ kept quiet, birds sang.
The hole out in the blazing sun.
My friend’s voice lingered
in the minutes’ farthest side.
I drove home seen through
by the summer day’s brilliance
by rain and stillness
seen through by the moon.
Contributor’s notes: Tomas Tranströmer
Contributor’s notes: Patty Crane
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