When Sorbs are in SeasonA chill comes over me... a necklace
of sorbs, even now, in my hands;
even now the poplar
sees in the river
the shimmer of a yellow leaf
dangling from the tip
of a blackened bough... and a voice
surges through the hills: “When sorbs,
my love, are in season, summer is already in flight...”
Later this morning the leaf
will shrivel, at a whish
of mountain wind. From across a veil
of fog, from far away across the fields,
who’ll call out, even now? Whose voice
will ring?
(Translated by Anthony Molino)