the meadow-scent is dizzying;
Christ-face is the sun with bloody
tears, sudarium is the lake.
Poplar is trembling on the shore,
looking at blood on its torso,
staring, whining with tangled look:
is it its killer, is it, great god?
But evening has fallen: peace-kiss,
the lake enveloped in cool robe.
The silent landscape is listening,
the poplar stopped trembling. Dozed off.
Translated by: Maria Bencsath