Whyís everything strange? It looks just the same: sky as blue as before the attack, same old woods and wind, same old water - only he didnít make it back... Canít remember now which one was right, arguing nights with our packs on. Only now I canít get enough of him now he didnít make it back... Heíd sing along out of time and balk for no reason, heíd always say white was black, heíd wake me up when he rose with the dawn; yesterday, he didnít make it back... Weíre not talking about whatís empty now, though this space was always tight packed. It felt like the wind blew the fire out when he didnít make it back... Now springís broken out, like a prisoner gone, and I blurted out, there on the track: "Hey, letís break for a smoke!" His answer was silence, ícause he didnít make it back... Do our dead know we keep on fighting? And watch over us, if they do? The sky shines on woods like on water, and the trees turn sky blue, too. There was room for us two, wherever we dug, time flowed for us both, tight or slack. Now thereís just me. But it seems, you see, Iím the one didnít make it back
© Thom Moore. Translation, 2010
© Thom Moore. Performance, 2010