THE HUNTERS IN THE SNOW
from a midnight flit – stooping figures of
hunters, hounds come into the field of vision.
On their shoulders lies the endless
hammock of the light. A meagre
take, a fox – only visible to one who is
observant. Only one who truly has eyes
understands. For only with averted face
do they reveal the mask of regret. Where
they have been remains a secret, what’s seen
is inexpressible. But that they know is
plain as a pikestaff. And also, that this
is a retreat, their unforeseen
arrival in a house of
penned-in open sky.
More more translations of poems by Spinoy go to here and here.
For a translation of his long poem about Hölderlin's Susette go to here.