Midday, the mower dies down in the garden.
A snail abandons its shell, to shrivel naked
among the pebbles. As I turn around,
let go from my daughter’s hands, a balloon
slowly descends onto thorns of wild gooseberry.
We were a part of this world. Against it
we had our hearts and fists. Like the tap roots
of stubborn trees we held firmly to the ground.
High up to our lips we raised a two-eared jug,
and water went trickling down our necks and chests.
God remembered us like this:
multitudinous like the stars,
scattered around like rubbish.
sprinkled about like sand.
© translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones