Grafenauer Niko:

The country where I walk rots under the feet of strangers.

Sharp winds seize the bristling grass.

Claws grab me from behind, I walk in a trap.

The landscape is like a blanket drawn over the dead.

Summer pours black thunder on the heavy seals.

Dryness floods my mouth and slowly chokes me.

The sickle pauses high in my consciousness.

I halt in flight, cast in a flash of lightning.


Time opens like the teeth of a wolf

bitten into the quivering world with the rapacity of cold.

Thirst swells slowly in my mouth like a poisoned fruit.

At the table when memories dusk over I read ruin

  from the palm of my hand.

Translated by Jože Lazar