Secret Last Year (A Calendar Twelve-tone) [4. April, maybe]
translated by Paul Vangelisti
The sun is made of many mysterious concepts
cowardly resentments with listless rotation
they say they don't say but they demand attention
something rotten a little enlarged or rosy
a slight lividness applied to our pettiness
with light brush strokes exhausted by the heat
I speak of the heat that spoils and enthuses
of this black and magic heat that doesn't survive
innocuously childish to the organism's purpose
softened by the veritable verities drawing near
in April which is the fourth month of the year
The truths of April:
Verity is not veracity.
Resentments are cowardly.
Secrets, like buried bones, will rise to the surface.
It is the cruelest month for reasons Eliot and his wasteland could not have known.