where is that beautiful memory with linden-blossom lips
the kneeling wind in the plowed fields, the seller of rain
the north’s waxwing gathers red tears
hard sorrowful sorrows, its sharp ashberry beak
drinks the illness of water on the lungs without a response
the air is so refreshing, as if there is a sanatorium here
don’t uproot me from the brushwood, so ugly
in the tenancy, once the snow melts, I tremble with the smallest sound
the cemetery is clear, pleasant, Izidorius scatters winter seed
Marija prays for the man, an Angel blows the trumpet
these three myths would suffice completely if I remembered
walking down the road, if I could endure