Speak to me of the wave of longing
That broke against you,
Pressuring your forehead,
Narrowing your narrow street,
Beating on your palms,
America.
Your eyes remain unclosed,
Looking-glass and sea,
For the dream with claws.
Fairy bird,
arching bird,
Sweet enchantress,
Envied by throngs.
"And you who ask about me everywhere,
By now don't you know that I am death?"
Flavia Cosma from Wormwood Wine
translated by Don Wilson with the author