Translation: Catherine Phil MacCarthy
At what cost does a woman not want
to know and not ask for anything?
The palms of the hands have looked upwards,
and the sky lets flow manna, in compassion.
The period, that acronym of the past,
coincides with the sadness of the teenage son.
A swan is singing the most deeply felt melody,
the twilight of the hormones.
Under the roofs, love vexes and nurtures the lives,
still-life in green and sepia, war and peace among flowers.
Everything is so fragile, so easy, so abbreviated.
Belongings and their shell, the traits of a shipwrecked life.
© Miren Agur Meabe