Translation is the ART of revelation, making the
       unknown known.
The translator artist has the fever and craft
       to recognize, re-create and reveal the work of
       the other artist.

But even when famous at home,
the work comes into an alien city as an orphan
with no past to its readers.
In rags, handmedowns, or dramatic black capes
       of glory,
it is surprise, morning, a distinctive stranger.

The orphan is Don Quijote de la Mancha in Chicago.



Translation is an art BETWEEN tongues,
and the child of the art lives forever between
       and an alien city.
Once across the border, in new garb,
the orphan remembers or conceals the old
and appears new-born and different. 

But the notion of perfection is inconceivable
and boring.



Yet translation of poetry is CONCEIVABLE.

A transfer dwells in imperfection.
It shuns mechanical replicas, the dream of literalists 
       who believe in truth.
A transfer gives us the other, 
and itself under another spanking fresh name.