Devastated by dislove
As this region by the summer’s drought,
On the threshing floor I’m pulling up the brown stalks,
Gathering the dry leaves beneath the trees;
The peaches I cut in two hold worms,
The orchard has the sand’s color,
The sun burns like nettles,
An unpunished incendiary –
Instead of the mixture of forest odors, the smell of burnt trees.
If only the rain would come running
And loose its concert of little bells
Reviving everything with its caressing little nudgings,
If only the clean roads would glisten.
Translated by Viera ve James Sutherland-Smith