We hurled alone the trail of the spider,
in thorny magpies’ nests we were
sqeezed, narrowed
under the wet pod of a vetch.
The funnels of the anteater, wider
and slanting, the absence of the wind
was to be occupied, it cooled down,
and at the passage, the raised stone
no longer faced the East.
The brown spot around the root
demanded quick explanation;
and everything that glowed too hastily,
and shifted ceaselessly,
and sank in serpentine, airy tunnel.
Translated by: Dragi Mihajlovski and David Bowen