Night is a great sleeping city
where the wind blows. It has come a long way
to the refuge of this bed. It is midnight in June.
You are sleeping, I have been led to the edges of infinity.
The wind shakes the hazel tree. The call comes
that approaches and draws back. One could swear
a light is flying across woods, or surely
shadows turning, they say, in the underworld.
(That call in the summer night, how many things
I could say about it, and your eyes . . . ) But it is only
the bird named barn owl calling to us
from suburban woods, and already our smell
is that of corruption. In the morning light
already under our skin that is so warm, bone
pierces, while stars darken at street corners.

Philippe Jaccottet, translated by Louis Simpson