translated by Stephen Mitchell

There stands death, a bluish liquid in

a cup without a saucer.

Such a peculiar place to find a cup:

standing on the back of a hand. And still quite plain

is the line along the glazed curve, where

the handle snapped. Dusty. And Hope is written

across the side, in faded Gothic letters.

The drinker for whom the beverage was destined

read it off at breakfast, long ago.

What kind of beings are they, who

finally must be scared away by poison?

Otherwise would they remain here? Would they keep

chewing so foolishly on their own frustration?

The hard present moment must be taken

out of them, like a set of false teeth.

Then they mumble. And go on mumbling. . .

O falling star,

once seen into from a bridge in a foreign country—:

not to forget you. To endure.