Translated by Susanna Nied

    I

    Up they soar， the planet's butterflies，

    pigments¹ from the warm body of the earth，

    cinnabar， ochre， phosphor yellow， gold

    a swarm² of basic elements aloft.

    Is this flickering³ of wings only a shoal

    of light particles， a quirk⁴ of perception？

    Is it the dreamed summer hour of my childhood

    shattered as by lightning lost in time？

    No， this is the angel of light， who can paint

    himself as dark mnemosyne Apollo，

    as copper⁵， hawkmoth， swallowtail.

    I see them with my blurred⁶ understanding

    as feathers in the coverlet of haze⁷

    in Brajcino Valley's noon-hot air.