Breathless dandelion
tells me: “Tar sticking
to the hair of harried
warriors,” blowing
their horns huddled
together in ambush
tearing at my wool; the fragrent
feast of the flock,
the noise overpowers hearing
on the doorknock of the gate
a knock – in my
sight a spider sways
on the edge of the abyss.
Translated by: Michael Szporer