Translated by Adam Cullen


In any corner of the Estonian map in which you may recline,

the season will not inquire.

The air has been made to get by.

Thoughts ring out in Petrakuudi, 

in Ülejõe, and on Fools’ Hill.

Sunsets press the keys in the Adams’ soul.

Birdsong is being synchronized

and every Eve is tuning her virginal

so that one quiet summer evening she might

accompany a herd of cattle as they amble down

the village street into quiet humming.

Happy should be they who has let loose

even a single song.

Within it sound the first crocus and ground elder;

stings the white nettle’s poisonous bud;

shrills the decaying dried grass. But then, it is summer.

What hasn’t yet come is over by then.

Men’s profiles are burnt beneath feathery clouds.

Women’s laughter and tears are stored between sprouting lilacs.

Spring’s fog has turned to summer flowers. Pollen holds the notes,

the herd gathers around the player,

and the cattle lick the hands that shoot far from her dress.