FUTILE PEOPLE

you too have left that gloomy paradise

of the not very deep mine of chromosomes

where—like living dew—together the invisible

seed of people quivers

(in invisible honeycombs)

and you yielded pusillanimously to life

you came—blossomed—and withered—

and—in a flash into the earth . . . . . . . .

everywhere in the earth

slightly deeper than potatoes

you stretched out naked before the Almighty

the exact same inventory of bones

(as if the only expediency on earth—

was to grow your own bones)

the trite hieroglyphs of people

like matches stacked

by a child’s hand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

futile people whose faces

even God can’t remember

Translated by Michael M. Naydan