BUT OF THE MAN HIMSELF I CAN SAY LITTLE

I have a raw translation

of one of the average

poems of Wystan Hugh Auden,

Oxford, waiting polishing,

jagged lines, stumbling

word choices needing

turning into a resemblance of verse,

but of the man

himself I notice I can say little;

that crossing of the Atlantic

on the eve of war -

what I can say when wars

will still follow people

the rest of their lives?

01.02.2026