The Chair

On the chair a favorite book a dirty shirt 
a glass full of noise and thirst 
or a beach where dolphins of smoke 
are meditating 
Its wood has rested my bones 
insubstantial air
international politics love 
I’m sick of traveling

In this room which the Queen of England has never visited 
in this room which groans like a lurching boat 
while morning wind lashes the black spires of churches 
I feel only dust ground down by light

Chair of silence of joy of dark wood
Electric chair 
where every night my soul is burnt to ash 
under the blind stare of the electric bulb.

Translated by Kathleen Weaver

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