Translation number 8 (week eight)

Glaciers, mammoths, wastelands.   Black rocks in the night that somehow resemble houses; in the rocks—caves.   And no one knows who trumpets at night along the stony path among the rocks; and, sniffing out the path, blows about the white snow-dust.   Perhaps it is a gray-trunked mammoth; perhaps the wind; but perhaps—the wind IS the icy roar of some super mammothish mammoth.   One thing is clear: it is winter.   And you have to clench your teeth as tight as you can to keep them from chattering; and you have to split kindling with a stone axe; and each night you have to move your fire from cave to cave, deeper and deeper; and you have to bundle yourself with more and more shaggy animal hides.