Two Generations
(Dy brezni)

My father was
A sad-looking fellow,
A leafless olive tree
With black pits on every bough.

His words rumbled loudly
Within us
As if they were a famished wolf's howling
Alone in the barren cliffs.

My brother took
His place,
My barefoot brother
- cold wind on the horizon -

And blew at the autumnal fire
With full cheeks,
And all the sparks became
Sons.