Kovič Kajetan:
The Taste Of Spring

Water gathers

into patches of flowers

frosts singe

lips and heart

the wind shakes lovers

like the frailest bushes

pine needles fill

their veins

twilights over the river

are so thin and pale

evenings are hollow

like doghouses with the dogs gone

anguish squats

in every finger

in every fingernail

there is a miniature terror

so all at once

do the alders darken

their somber band

plays in the breast

and in the mouth there is

the senseless desire

for the sweet taste

of Saint John’s wort.

Translated by The Author