Odor of Hay

Who knows where it comes from,

this odor of hay:

like an exhausted wing

coming from too far away.

It collapses, lets itself fall

on me, with insane abandon,

like the breath of a creature

who can’t go on anymore.

All the tears of this unknown, unfinished path

tremble in my impure soul

like the hoarse rattle of that cricket, in the garden,

gnawing the dark loneliness.

Milan, 1 June 1929