You bide near to the squat boy.
He shrouds his voice wobble
quaffing the barley decoction,
and bending his face towards the cradle
in which his minor sister cries and smiles.

The amber from his pockets is scattered
all over the garden. He lays hold of the flute
as the black alder begins to glitter –
its leaves are whirled by a stream
that comes from the stubble field.

You just let your mind rest there
on a flowerbed, listening to the starlings,
and on a sudden, it is hovering
over the nearby shallow, in a dazzling light.