My Guitar

My guitar
sobs.
Glass cups of dawn
burst.
My guitar
sobs.
Unavailing
to hush it.
Impractical
to hush it.
It sobs monotonously
as a drip,
as wind sobs
across snowfall.
Impractical
to hush it.
It sobs for things
far away.
Sand of a hot South
calling for ivory blooms.
An arrow astray sobs,
as twilight without morn,
as dawn’s bird
stiff on a branch.
Oh, my guitar!
A soul struck
by many swords.

FGL. Trans. Clare Frantz.