my very rough translation of the poem

the corpse mount


large stones,  boulders on high
over the little corpse so vexed;
reduced to powder,  like unto my love,
so very sad,  so exquisite,  so grand

songs of vexation, vexed songs
where held in such a state
of impossible suffering
of the fury of these times

sleep not the ripping winds
the terrible queries of other seas
sleep not the furious birds
as seem these frequent tempests

by one small movement one time
the boulders immoveable
by one small movement one time
this forum of daily capacities

as powder,  these high boulders
and the vexed little corpse
not so different than my love
sweet,  sad,  unspeakably exquisite and grand

      -Gonzales Lopez Abente






.