No-one Rises Indifferent to Sorrow

 

(an excerpt of this book by Silvia Goldman, translated by Charlotte Whittle)

 

The other day I thought everything was dead

and it was urgent to run to the graveyard.

I went only four times to the graveyard

my visit is not in proportion to my deaths

abstemious social activities that travel from my

right wrist to my left wrist

and later depart

leaving their blaze on my knees.

 

I stay seated,

sunk down in the café and seated,

with my coffee, and sunk in my seat

and outside, I make a building, and on the seventh floor is a girl

but it isn’t me,

it’s the building,

or the building’s balcony,

or December in the building,

which make her a suicide in the city of life

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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