Six Translations from The Dickinson Archive

Pain

A spring of water where I must burn by myself until all flames are well

extinguished, as if I were approaching death, a body — nearly without

mouth or eyes or heart, and so on — flung into its own turbulence,

with no beatitude whatsoever. Eros again (who else?), is beside me and

far from me — irresistible pest. What can I do to love his ever-present

wounds? My house laps up the flames, and the wrong creatures keep

appearing throughout the musical score.

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