Eleventh Poem by Eugenijus Ališanka

This wind is most likely from Spain: it
carries the trotter's horsehair and the sail's
rags: it smells of distant half-ripe
foods / it pierces us / it strikes
through our mouths to our insides it
only leads and does not dare mislead:
let's get ready: three more days and here
in our yard reconquista: herds of trotters
caravans of caravels hidalgos
: but maybe this wind is from the cemetery

Translated by Jonas Zdanys