You are ready to take the rock
for a rock, oh novice,
small Lazarus among foothills.
And the wing might be an error
so that we are certainly possible, squeezed
between echoes, a line of an illegible transcript.
We would not be enough to move
this, needles of frost, above the order,
fiery Himalayas. You discern an equivalence,
a number, and for a moment we are so close,
an olive-tree murmurs above the spring,
and a shepherd
here is the first name, for kneading
a lump of clay. A pea runs away from you,
are you going to hunt again?
Translated by: Dragi Mihajlovski and David Bowen