HE WAS THE WIND

(translated by Ann Čeh)

He was the wind –

woe betide me if I leant upon him.

I fell, bruising hands and face.

He was the wind.

He enjoyed ruffling my hair

and loosening my dress.

He shook the fallen leaves

like golden guineas,

tousling turf, mountain and cloud,

and weaving water into white lace,

so I did not fear what lay in the depths.

That was the wind.

Trees sang,

the grass soothed my feet,

flowers curtsied

whenever he walked with me,

and were sunshine my wish,

the clouds parted

and the tall rye shuddered like

canine fur flattered by its mistress.

Birdsong and calls

were heard on every side.

That was the wind.

Whenever he walked with me

the dust upon the road rose

and the air bloomed.

He was the wind.

How many times I bruised my hands and face

when I leant upon him.

All of it healed.

The world was full of whisperings,

glowing clouds and dreams,

trembling like the heart in spring.

One was young alongside such a wind.