Is our brother secretly moving into
alien kingdoms, creasing
under his arm a rustling snakeskin?
Boes he wonder: for whom are we so patiently
from time immemorial, carving a deep
oak pail? Upon a hot a windy
rope, to the rusty copper
box, your genus rises,
as if sprinkled with some alien
inspiration. Does our brother rust
isolated among seeds, enlightening us
faithfully with the blade?
The lark’s on the wing, the snail’s
on the thorn, God’s in his heaven.
Translated by: Dragi Mihajlovski and David Bowen