It’s night, a bitter winter. You raise
the drapes a little and peer out. Your hair
blows wildly; joy suddenly
opens wide your black eyes,
and what you saw—it was an image
of the world’s end—comforts
your inmost heart, warms and eases it.
A man ventures out on a lake
of ice, under a crooked streetlamp.
Umberto Saba (1883 – 1957)
Translated by George Hochfield and Leonard Nathan (1924 – 2007)
petzipellepingo sent me this poem!