I'm translating Edward Thomas, the mood
demands it, leads me to him, to his words
written in those brief years before France,
the images they bring forth in my mind,
I the reader singing silently what the poet
composed, truthful, straying, improvising,
and still I know that it should be a land
farther in distance but shared in time
that I should bring to my language,
giving justice to the hospital floors
covered in dead children we see
each day, children who should've
lived as long as is the distance
from me to Thomas, walking in his
rural vistas, on his way to Arras.
23.12.2024
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