Near a rotted old stump
Which the spring water washes
A n old helmet rusts, gaunt,
And upon it, audacious,

Like a bold mountaineer
Climbs a wormlet. Nearby
A small bird for a nest
Scans the beach with its eye.

The last ice-splinters melt
And are turned into springs.
But what flower in the grass
To the old helmet clings?

From beneath its steel rim
Peers a frail dandelion.
Stroke its head with your hand -
It's alive - undying...

Translated by Dorian Rottenberg