His eyes turn oft to the forest.
I have seen the bread fall off his hands
all at sudden.
I have seen him leave a friend at mid sentence
and go in the forest.
At nights his head is teased with dreams.
Though it is fall, he hears grouses' chitter,
the music of the capercailles
as if it was the season of smelting snow.
He sees wolves trot from the ceiling,
out the wall.
The bear enters the door, raises the paw.
The moose stands behind the window,
rubs its forehead against the pane.
Its horns are a black crown against the sky.
Or his dreams are filled with the sound of swan's wings
and as if the nightingale sung on hut's roof
sweetly
- he smiles in dream like a child -
and he wakes up to crows' caw,
the song of the sparrow.
I have seen him standing
on bleak bedrock,
when night wind already whistles in the ear,
he shadows his eyes with hand and stands
looking in the distance
searching the swan, the eagle, the nightingale.
I have heard him speaking
on the bleak rocks:
When I lift the bow,
when I aim,
I must do it as if
on the other side is life,
on the other death.
Every time I lift the bow
I must do so
to strike the bird.
