I know, she would cry out, I know: telephones
don’t exist, it’s the end of the world everywhere,
people are flattened on the sidewalk,
they’re dying on their feet, behind you, in front of you
with no warning. There’s no one but cats left
capable of declining the noun love
at the edge on the cliff, and too bad for those
who rest in peace, a pity
for the inconsolable plain: always that wheat,
always that blue, and not the slightest grain
of mountain on the horizon, not the least
echo of you in this enormous desert,
not the briefest tremor on the line
like a voice to put the night to sleep.
Translated by Marilyn Hacker
EN 
MK