Kovič Kajetan:

The hills are piled up in the noontime.

The stableboys come driving

the wet mares up from the river.

In the bushes hang

the swollen cornel berries.

Pale red shadows

rustle under the oak trees.

A strange milk

drips from yellow flowers.

It’s going to be cold.

There’s some terror in the air.

Young boys bolt across the stubble field

and in the dark, solitary wood

tremble like little dogs.

Translated by The Author