Thorns, shattered glass, sickness, crying: all day
they attack the honied contentment. And neither the tower,
nor the walls, nor secret passageways are of much help.
Trouble seeps through, into the sleepers’ peace.
Sorrow rises and falls, comes near with its deep spoons,
and no one can live without this endless motion;
without it there would be no birth, no roof, no fence.
It happens: we have to account for it.
Eyes squeezed shut in love don’t help,
nor soft beds far from the pestilent sick,
from the conquerer who advances, pace by pace, with his flag.
For life throbs like a bile, like a river: it opens
a bloody tunnel where eyes stare through at us,
the eyes of a huge and sorrowful family.