1st September 2022
Poetry
1 minute read
Waning
translated by Bob Hýsek
1st September 2022
1 minute read
The sun is blood red and slowly
turns golden as I make the morning bed
too big for one.
Birds scream wild over one another
in the garden as they peck
the ripening elderberry,
precious beads.
It’s still summer
but it’s waning.
Our voices ring with desire;
in the scorching afternoons
over the grass crackling dry,