[All Things that Grow Indelible in the Grass] - Poem by Marjan Strojan
All things that grow indelible in the grass -
cicada's eyes, the sound of herbs,
I'd gather up to hold before my eyes
and press them to my lids like a cold compress.
All that is bitter, burning, sour-tasting
like rancid butter giving us each day
renewed taste of itself, no more the sweeter
taste of proper things - these all rot away -
I suck in my mouth's saliva
until we meet, long known to my throat -
a mix of wormwood, plantain, dandelion
reminiscent of each of us and both.
Is this what we will taste of us? Not bile
of growing ripe - a chalice I'd let pass -
of us, life's juice and venom, of dandelion,
of children, people… but of us no less.
translated by Alasdair MacKinnon
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