by Hans Faverey

Translated by Francis R. Jones

Beating his lead with the blunt

end of his axe， flattening it

in order to forget that he is

a child of death who wants to weight

his net. Until it is suddenly

done and the one who did not disappear

stands in my room， taking me

in； still lying whether I am，

and how. Just as you might ask

a fisherman returning with nothing：

So where's the fish？ And for him to reply，

without resentment， without envy：

The fish——it's in the sea.