The man alone listens to the calm voicewith half-closed eyes, as if a breathwere blowing on his face, a friendly breathrising–astonishing–from a lost time.The man alone hears the ancient voicethat his fathers, in their day, heard, clearand collected, a voice that like the greenof ponds and hills deepens with evening.The man alone knows a shadow voice,caressing, that rises up in the calm tonesof secret springs: he drinks it intently,eyes closed. Its presence isn’t apparent.This is the voice that once stopped the father of his father, and on back through dead blood.The secretive voice of a woman that comesfrom a doorway at the falling of dusk.—translated by Geoffrey Brock
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