My Clocks
The hands of my clock
that does not run
show eternity.
The hands of my clock
that runs
remind me of my mortality.
In the evenings,
when the walls grow dark
and my clocks grow dark,
I look up into the sky
to the stars.
The hands of the Great Bear,
the hands of the Little Bear,
both lead home
to the bright light
of Polaris.
Translated by Barnett Zumoff
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