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Night, two o’clock: moonlight. The train has stopped
in the middle  of the plain. Distant bright points of a town
twinkle cold on the  horizon.
 
As when someone has gone into a dream so far
that he’ll never remember  he was there
when he comes back to this room.
 
And as when someone goes into sickness so deep
that all his former days  become twinkling points, a swarm,
cold and feeble on the horizon.
 
The train stands perfectly still.
Two o’clock: full moonlight, few  stars.
 

--Tomas Tranströmer
 
translation by Robert Bly
A Book of Luminous Things, An  International Anthology of Poetry
edited by Czeslaw Milosz  




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