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             THE EIGHTH ELEGY

                                                       

  

  dedicated to Rudolf Kassner

 

 

VIII    1     With all its eyes, the animal sees 

VIII    2     openness. Only our eyes are

VIII    3     as if reversed and placed all round it 

VIII    4     as traps around its free emergence.

VIII    5     What exists outside we know from the animal’s

VIII    6     visage only: for already, the early child

VIII    7     we reverse and force it to see arrangement

VIII    8     backwards, not the open world that

VIII    9     is so deeply set in the animal face. Free of death,

VIII    10    which we alone can see. The untrammelled animal

VIII    11    has its annihilation constantly behind it

VIII    12     and God  before it, and when it walks, it walks  

VIII    13    in eternity, the way the fountains flow.

VIII    14     We never, not a single day, have

VIII    15    open space before us into which the flowers

VIII    16     endlessly unfold. Always it is “world”

VIII    17     and never nowhere without not: the pure,

VIII    18     not watched over, that one breathes and

VIII    19    endlessly knows and does not crave. As a child one

VIII    20    might silently get lost in it and then be

VIII    21    shaken. Or someone dies and is it.

VIII    22    For near to death, one sees death no longer

VIII    23    and stares outside, perhaps with the huge gaze of animals.

VIII    24    Lovers, if their partners were not, who 

VIII    25    obstruct the view, are near to this and marvel…

VIII    26     As if by oversight, it’s divulged to them

VIII    27     what’s behind the partners…But beyond 

VIII    28     them none can pass, and again one has “world.” 

VIII    29    Turned toward creation always, we only see

VIII    30    upon it the reflection of the untrammeled, 

VIII    31    obscured by us. Or that an animal,

VIII    32     a mute one, looks up, calmly, right through us.  

VIII    33    This is called destiny: to be a counterpart

VIII    34    and nothing else and always counterpart.

 

VIII    35    Were there awareness of our species in the 

VIII    36    assured animal that comes toward us

VIII    37    in the opposite direction —, it would wrench us round

VIII    38     with its ambulation. But for it, its own existence is  

VIII    39    endless, ungrasped, and without scrutiny 

VIII    40    of  its condition, pure, like its outgoing gaze.

VIII    41     And where we see future, it sees all things there

VIII    42     and itself within all things and healed forever.

 

VIII    43    And yet inside the watchfully warm animal there is 

VIII    44    weight and anxiousness of massive melancholy. 

VIII    45    For there adheres to it always a trace of that which

VIII    46    often overwhelms us, — remembrance,

VIII    47    as if the things for which one presses on had once 

VIII    48    been nearer and their attachment 

VIII    49    endlessly tender. Here, all is detachment

VIII    50    and there it was breath. After the first homeland, 

VIII    51    the second seems equivocal and windy.

VIII    52    Oh the bliss of the tiny creature

VIII    53    that always stays inside the womb that bore it; 

VIII    54    oh happiness of the gnat that still hops in it

VIII    55    even during matrimony: for womb is everything.

VIII    56    And see the semi-sureness of the bird

VIII    57    who almost knows both things from its origin, 

VIII    58    as if it were a soul of some Etruscan

VIII    59    of a deceased encompassed by a space,

VIII    60    but with the sleeping effigy as lid.

 

 

VIII    61    And how alarmed is one that has to fly

VIII    62    and is derived from womb. As if startled by itself,

VIII    63    it quivers through the air the way a crack

VIII    64    would cross a cup. Thus the bat’s trail

VIII    65    rends the porcelain of evening.

 

VIII    66    And we: spectators, always, everywhere,

VIII    67    turned toward all this and never out beyond it! 

VIII    68    It overfills us. We arrange it. It disintegrates.

VIII    69    We again arrange it and disintegrate ourselves.

 

VIII    70    Who is it that reversed us thus, that we, 

VIII    71    whatever we may do, present the attitude

VIII    72    of someone who’s departing? Just as he, upon 

VIII    73    the final hill that reveals to him once more all 

VIII    74    his valley, turns round, stops, and lingers —, 

VIII    75    thus we live and take our leave forever.

 

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