translation by Patty Crane
Silence
Walk past, they are buried . . .
A cloud glides over the sun’s disk.
Starvation is a tall building
that moves about by night—
in the bedroom an elevator shaft opens,
a dark rod pointing toward the interior.
Flowers in the ditch. Fanfare and silence.
Walk past, they are buried . . .
The table silver survives in giant shoals
down deep where the Atlantic is black.
Contributor’s notes: Tomas Tranströmer
Contributor’s notes: Patty Crane
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