Autumn
kicks me out of the park,
twirls liquid winter
and trails behind me,
hits the ground
scaly leaf
and, like the Park,
entwines me hand and port
cobweb of rain;
a spinning wheel is hiding in the sky
muslin this pathetic,
and there
it thunders,
as in the hand of a kid who ran a stick
by cast iron colors.
Apollo, take away
I have my lyre, leave me a fence
and heed me velmi
benevolently: harmony of strings
replace - accept -
the inability of twigs to discord,
turning your do-re-mi
in a thunderous roulade,
how good Perun.
Sing full of love,
sing about autumn, old throat!
Only she spread her tent
over you, jet
their icy
furrowing loam drills,
sing them and croak
bald crown of their points;
run and grass
your game, rabid pack!
I'm your prey.
1970 – 1971
