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