Covers of the shadow, overgrown with grass
partly unlatched, the murmuring manuscript
windswept, overcrowded. And the juniper
should bear its fruit, so enticing and moist.
The dust from icicles of the moon
sweeps above the cutting commas, gathers
in meaning, and only the country roads
prolong themselves, seductive, solitary.
Sense, the frost-bitten evening bird,
somewhere beyond all rhythm in the ruined
church, wails in the terrifying snowdrift.
Over the horizon of reason, clumsy
as if on a tightrope, the traveller stumbles on.
*Jagorida refers to sour grapes left on the vine which mature in late fall of winter. They become in fact surprisingly sweet.
Translated by: Michael Szporer