The Poet is a Cow
Grass… and beyond the grazing
lying next to my four feet
I find it quite amazing
that the mouthfuls I lie here and eat
are as big as those that were my feed
just now while I was roaming about,
I've forgotten yet again no doubt
what kind of a beast I am – I meet
my shape in ditches when I drink,
and looking at my head, I think:
how come the top is underneath?
The gate I rub myself along
grows sleek with grease and age as time goes on.
I shy away from frogs and from the young
and they from me: I've got too rough a tongue,
the farmer's milking, though, is so divine,
that I don't even think: the greedy swine.
At night, in fog, I dream all unaware
that I'm a little calf, safe in its mother's care.
Translation: © Paul Vincent, 1980