Gift from Heraclitus

January 4, 2007


Martin Cooper






But water spreads down the windows
like moss:
it doesn’t know that everything
is altered once it leaves the dream.

And the fire’s repose means assuming a form

out of its full powers of transformation.
Fire of the air, the fire’s solitude,
igniting the air made of fire.
Fire is the world that goes out and burns
again to last (it was always so) forever.


What is scattered today comes together,
what is near goes away:
it was and it wasn’t me who waited for you
one morning at the deserted park;
I stood by the everchanging river
as it was entered (it will never happen again)
by October’s sunlight, filtered
in shattered pieces through the thicket.
There was a smell of ocean: a dove
caught fire in the air like an arch of salt.
You weren’t there, you won’t be,
but the waves from a distant foam
came together in my deeds and words
(never belonging to others, never mine):
the sea which is pure water to the fish
will never quench the thirst of men.



Jose’ Emilio Pacheco


Translated by Ernesto Trejo




Cello Player

Dave Beckerman


One Response to “Gift from Heraclitus”

  1. Loved it, Just Loved it. Great photo and great poetry!

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