My guitar

My Guitar

My guitar starts its crying
Smashing dawn's darkness.
My guitar starts its crying
Impractical to stop it.
No way to stop it.
Humdrum crying, as a drip,
As wind on top of snow.
No way to stop it.
Crying for things far away.
Sands of a hot south,
Calling snowy blooms.
An arrow without a path, crying,
Through a night without morn,
Dawn's bird stiff on a branch.
Oh guitar!
My soul cut by a handful of swords.

FGL. Trans. "La madre de Clare."

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.