In the desert, precipitously, an uninvestigated
emotion rose up, the light
in the night boiled under the feet.
Along the moon’s lanes, coldly,
strange guards glistened, emerged
and faced the straits, between cruelty
and fear. As with a thoughtful woman,
under the belly of the desert a field poppy
trembled, a vanishing vision
of a prophet. We made camp
in its gleam, and built
for fifty five days, too ripe
in the wind. Yellow beetles in dust,
upon the wrath, along the cracked thoughts.
Translated by: Dragi Mihajlovski and David Bowen