Dawn

by Roberto Bolaño, trans. by D. Matus

Believe me, I'm in the middle of my room

hoping for rain. I'm alone. I do not care

to finish or not my poem. Hoping for rain,

drinking coffee and seeing out the window a beautiful landscape

of courtyards, hanging clothes and quiet,

the silent marble clothes of the city, where there is no

wind and one only hears the distant hum

of a color television, watched by a family

that is, at this moment, gathered around

a coffee table: believe me: yellow plastic tables

are divided up the line of the horizon and beyond:

to the suburbs where they build apartment

complexes, and a 16 year old boy sitting on

red bricks contemplates the movement of machines.

The sky in the boy’s hour is an enormous

hollow screw where the breeze plays. And the boy

plays with ideas. With ideas and arrested scenes.

Immobility is a hard and transparent mist

that comes from your eyes.

Believe me: love is not gonna come,

for beauty has been stolen from the dead dawns.