"I dreamed I already..."

I dreamed I already loved you.
I dreamed I already killed you.

But you rose again; another form, but you,
a girl on the little ball of the earth,
naive simplicity, curve-necked
on that early canvas of Picasso,
and prayed to me with your ribs:
"Love me," as though you said, "Don't push me off."

I'm that played-out, grown-up acrobat,
hunchbacked with senseless muscles,
who knows that advice is a lie,
that sooner or later there's falling.

I'm too scared to say: "I love you,"
because I'd be saying: "I'll kill you."

For in the depths of a face I can see through
I see the faces--can't count them--
that, right on the spot, or maybe
not right away, I tortured to death.

You're pale from the mortal balance. You say:
"I know everything; I was all of them.
I know you've already loved me.
I know you've already killed me.
But I won't spin the globe backwards:
Love again, and then kill again."

Lord, you're young. Stop your globe.
I'm tired of killing. I'm not a damn thing but old.

You move the earth beneath your little feet,
you fall, "Love me."
It's only in those eyes, so similar, you say:
"This time don't kill me!"

1967
Translated by James Dickey with Anthony Kahn (revised)