We all die alone however we can, as for me I’ll coil in a volcano’s swooning crater or dilute myself in the path’s refrains And if my heart stays till trail’s end I don’t see why my blood can’t join the flood beneath this ark, snatching from the deluge of my human pasts, from the face each agony showed me, the cross or port’s beacon we sailed from (we sought a belly in common to save us from the mass grave!) Make it so blood swamps me –better blood than brushfire! Everywhere the doe flash fire already in their eyes; these deer, they have the knack of dying lewd.

(Translated from the French by Peter Thompson)