Wind Season

by Dagur Hjartarson

Wind season, last night
marked the trees in our garden
with black bags
to find its way back

and it finds its way back
the next night
howling something nobody understands,
upheaves seaweed, algae,
nightmares with wings
from the depths of the Atlantic 

the next morning, the water’s surface
glossy, black
as if someone had tried
to pave the path down
to the bottom

and opened a pass for the fierce wind
to rise out of the sea
as the voice of those
who lost caches of words in the passage of ages

we watch the new path
and wait for them to come to land  

Translated by Meg Matich.