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Originally published March 5, 2014, on Tumblr.

November. One pear
sways on the tree past leaves, past reason.
In the nursing home, my friend has fallen.
Chased, he said, from the freckled woods
by angry Thoreau, Coleridge, and Beaumarchais.
Delusion too, it seems, can be well read.
He is courteous, well-spoken even in dread.
The old fineness in him hangs on
for dear life. “My mind now?
A small ship under the wake of a large.
They force you to walk on your heels here,
the angles matter. Four or five degrees,
and you’re lost.” Life is dear to him yet,
though he believes it his own fault he grieves,
his own fault his old friends have turned against him
like crows against an injured of their kind.
There is no kindness here, no flint of mercy.
Descend, descend,
some voice must urge, inside the pear stem.
The argument goes on, he cannot outrun it.
Dawnlight to dawnlight, I look: it is still there.

—Jane Hirshfield

Sacred Heart by The Civil Wars

An approximate translation:

When I walk in the street
The street to the Sacred Heart
I remember the promises
In the name of love
I’ll wait for you there
Will you come for me?
I’ll wait for you there
only you
You can stand
Until the sun hides
And kiss me softly
Until he returns
I’ll wait for you there
Will you come for me?
I’ll wait for you there
only you
You may take the delay
You may have missed your train
You can not possibly forgive me
The shadows grow
And the crowds disappear
I’ll wait for you there
Will you come for me?
I’ll wait for you there
only you

 

 

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