We present this work in honor of the poet’s 145th birthday.

 

I heard this morning
on the slope of the cliffs the starlings already
sang as if they were at home,
and yet they sang in a different timbre.

And the blue violets bloomed
on all the hills to the lake.
In the fields around my home
The snow still lies in the furrows.

In my city in the north
seven bridges stand, grey and old,
the ice, now dull and shaking,
clings to their rotten piles.

and over grey clouds
it rings with a fine, angelic tone,
and my children at home
understand the song the first lark sings.

Translation by Linda Marshall