tomaž šalamun





You see, even suffering decays, what is left

is the dust.

The limit is my breathing body.

A peasant lights his partridges.

He rakes, he gathers.

Let the earth purify itself.

He burns dry grass,

cuts wood and sells it.

Children carry him milk on carts,

so Kolhoz will pay him for gas.

He enjoys the rain when he needs it.

And the sun when it pleases the wheat, not him.

He is free.



—Translated from the Slovenian by Tomaž Šalamun and Matthew Rohrer