The questions still survive:
what does it think about, the brush, somnambulist,
after it’s seen it all?
The day that follows night returns
its artifice, the well-known
interlocking of the hours:
how is it that time didn’t stop,
why do the grain’s unopened eyes
keep growing?
After the night
day breaks again like a correction
or a punishment:
the leaves wake warm out of the dark
and liven with the dew
and the voice of the brush, its creatures’ din,
is still a concert,
merciless and shrill,
and yet a concert all the same.
It’s always moving forward:
there isn’t time to stop inventing things,
and in its first honey, still hot,
the names accumulate.
From The Brush
Translated by Robin Myers