my agitated words fall fast asleep.
I don’t even remember my petty dramas—
your lullaby sings me awake.
Others assure me I imagine this, that to receive you
the wound in my chest must stay fresh.
And that the anguish of others reopens the cut,
and that it’s not good to suppress their clamor.
It’s not that they’re wrong, you come to me this way, too,
but nothing compares to when you come to me like a dawn,
A brief dawning where everything is taken with adoration
of you, and then you go, you go to someone else’s darkness.
- Written by Patrice de La Tour du Pin
Translated by Jennifer Grotz
Image: The Hermit Thrush - Thomas Dewing
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