The days of salt are unbelievable–
like dreaming a dream dreamt by somebody else.

And, like actors
dead at the end of an interminable tragedy,

they stir themselves, and start up again,
whenever we remember:

the lost hills
sunk in the torpor of hills;

the mountains
towering in the west;

hearses that roam through the land
day and night;

the unshakeable faith
of the dead;

hands that loom out of darkness
waving their memories;

eternal brotherhood
that never leads to wisdom;

out of place.

The days of salt are unbelievable–
bad as the sowing of bad seeds

they’re now abandoned,
chucked in the abyss.

And, as we drag ourselves up once again,
(for what choice do we have?)

those days slip down behind us,
forgotten for ever;

like our dark skin,
like our vain attempts to sleep.

We have names, and nicknames,
ancient as eternity,

and our accent betrays us
as strangers here, always.

The days of salt are unbelievable.
But now even they are hardly worth remembering.