FERRATER, Gabriel

Dawn

The night goes away, another night, and the wing

of an immense airplance has placed itself

between the wide blue and the window, and I wonder

whether it's the faintest kind of green or silver, cold

as the insistent fineness of the knife scraping

the imposition of excessive life

off the uterus, or the light itself, as the boy's hand

opens: he's getting tired of making a fist to

aggravate his brothers, pretending it holds some

kind of treasure. He gives away his prey, and I know

it's not anything that wasn't in me yesterday

and disconsolate, and I feel cold looking at myself

another day, dried-out pit of a fruit, pulpless,

outside the night.

Translated by Johannes Beilharz