Child,
born as my days narrow
to a final hush—
you arrive with a peace
I cannot carry out of this world.
The poem owed you—
since the first spark of knowing
flickered in me—
remains unpaid,
a debt of light
I could never quite translate.
So I set it down again,
here,
at the threshold of your radiance:
a broken chant,
a cinder of language
cooling in my hands,
its warmth fled
into the air that will outlive me.
Let this be the truth between us:
You, the unspent flame;
I, the brief vessel.
No word I make
can cross the distance
to merit You

Translated by Diniz Borges