First song speaks of the old way
of life. How things were set
in the beginning and how it was clear where
they should end or outlined begin again

with familiar feelings. But then the cuckoo
started to strike greater hours, and grass
grew taller and flowers blossomed more beautifully
and afternoon strollers gazed at hitherto missed colours.

Snow still white, but cleaner
and brighter, the sky above the roof tiles still blue,
but blue in the goldenness of a perfect
afternoon, and the song still resounding

in its evergreen tones. The stars cast
their glance towards us like surprised acquaintances
bumping into one another after a thousand years,
and the book sticks to its claim even after a thousand years,

and a special river has crawled between
the glittering rocks from the old riverness
polished to perfect shapes like durable
hearts tossed into its winding.

Not a month to name
nor a year to know when
it all started, only sounds of moments
poured into an ear and the time unknown

as though all time was past, your original sin
still buried in your sleep and from an empty
pocket you can pull your first song
which took you there. But it is plain and clear now,

only its chorus that you once knew by heart
keeps changing, so that you can never catch the words.

Translated by Ana Jelnikar and W. Martin