Traduttore, traditore

       [...]

       Lost, is it, buried? One more missing piece?

       But nothing’s lost. Or else: all is translation
       And every bit of us is lost in it
       (Or found—I wander through the ruin of S
       Now and then, wondering at the peacefulness)
       And in that loss a self-effacing tree,
       Color of context, imperceptibly
       Rustling with its angel, turns the waste
       To shade and fiber, milk and memory.

        - James Merrill, Lost in Translation