'In his house'

Now the rendered English of some really bad composette I wrote to someone in Hebrew last night.



In the waters of the mirror

The countenances of your youth

Are enlightened in the colours of the salt

And of the alleys

- With the fulfilling of your ways

The lust

The nausea

A low weeping

In the small corners

And on my notebook

Smoked in hyssop

And resting in his house

The fantastic, calm house

Were it not for your narrating eyes

That devour the silence

With a wet knife

Tired and quiet

Like a little goat

Like a soft and strange present

And in his house

He dreams with his father

Without falling asleep

And you

Awake on his walls

Even while in sleep

From your distant house.