At the fire’s edge . . .
At the fire’s edge
everything has a scent, moves and hums
and when I stretch my toes out
the forest begins
Like a dark green blanket
it spreads out over the land
and reaches
you as well
and over you
and the very same fire
reaches you too
and the very same June
and St John’s
You are there somewhere
a crown of fern blossoms on your head
boots and heart muddy
beard shaved
mobile shining and clean
and full of women’s phone numbers
the same summer in your eyes
the same June and St John’s
Totally unsuitable for being a man
but completely Pan
Translated by Ilmar Lehtpere
Page(s) 158
magazine list
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