Two Poems translated by Stanley Moss

September

It neighs through small farms and hills.
September is the name of this horse.
See its eye
clear the sharp horizon,
ripen the mountains.
Its hair scatters sun-pollen
over red clay.

September is the name of this horse.
Up to the main square through the streets,
were today a holiday (it is not),
the people of the neighborhood would see it pass,
jobs know suddenly they become trees
in the peace of a high garden.

On balconies the palms of last Easter
are suddenly disheveled and silent clouds go galloping by.
Gallant crops of summer,
trail feathers
...