Sleeping Poems | final version

In the ink lie dregs of verses
slumbering in the deep, bare words
halfway between exhaustion and the pen.
Their incoherent movements remind us
of the solitude
of lovers who
never meet.
So the paper, the folio, remains
a white
untainted rush mat
thirsty for lyricism.
The ink pot with
closed lid
like a dark pond
of melancholy fish.

(Traslated by Charles Olsen)