Ēriks Ešenvalds - Translation
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Empty of words, not empty
Of light, the moon’s face
Awaits the touch of a pen
Empty of ink, but not
Of silver, that pale
Slate that is the moon
Waits for a sweep
Of letters inscribed
In strokes deep as dark
In which it floats
Emptied of nothing
Filled with story, the moon becomes
A thin wafer melting
In the mouth, words
Having found their tongue
Of light, the moon’s face
Awaits the touch of a pen
Empty of ink, but not
Of silver, that pale
Slate that is the moon
Waits for a sweep
Of letters inscribed
In strokes deep as dark
In which it floats
Emptied of nothing
Filled with story, the moon becomes
A thin wafer melting
In the mouth, words
Having found their tongue
