Yvan Goll
translated by Andrew Joron

JOB

I.

The moon-axe
Sinks into my marrow

So that tomorrow my cedar
Will bar the way
To the fiery horses

Old lions of my blood
Roar in vain for gazelles
In my head there are rotting
Worm-eaten bones

The foreign heart
Is hung, phosphorescent
In my ribcage

II.

Consume me, hoary quicklime
Dissolve me, fresh salt
Death is ecstasy

And the fish of the Red Sea
Luminous with iodine
Nourish me still

In my sores
I cultivate the roses
Of death’s springtime

Seventy granaries burned down!
Seven sons moldering away!

My skeleton
Terminal olive tree
Rises out of the Asiatic wastes

How is it that I still live?
Uncertain god
To prove you to yourself

III.

The last olive tree, you say?
Yet golden oil
Drips from my branches
That have learned how to bless

In the hothouse of my eyes
Tropical suns ripen

My feet are driven root-like through marble

Listen Israel
I am the manna-sprouting tree
I am the book of fire
With incandescent letters

I am the three-armed candelabrum
With the seven-hued view
Inhabited by knowing birds

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