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ANDREU VIDAL (born 1959)


AZBE (Translation by Hillary Gardner)

Quiet, Azbe, and listen
to this immense silence,
punctured by smells and fierce color.
Now is when
trees make mistakes,
and the birds, dismayed,
snap at the three faces of night.
There's no soul not praying
in the house of dreams.
No soul not falling on the stairway to heaven.
And the exact
machinery of time, dazzling prodigy
of parts and gears, goes on turning
white-hot, screaking:
The milk returns
to the withered jugs; slowly
rotten flesh recomposes and the woods
take root skywards;
the light
passes the moon on its way back to the sun,
and an idol of stone
floats over the ocean.
You and I,
sweet and tragic Azbe,
still haven't been born.