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That evening light
Here, cherry-trees break wattle-fences, overflowing like lava. The moon as a hobo till night sleeps on grass by a fence, I Then floats
like a prince over meadows, when the day is over, On wide linen towels wiping his fresh shining face.
Here, stately as Turks, at each house sit puffed up shiny frogs.
At night, they drink milk out of jars, warm and fresh from the cows,
And hide little gnats in these hermitages in the jugs.
The gnats make a trumpeting noise then for hours and hours.
Tinged pink by the juice of the sunset, the village street lies.
On low wooden benches broad-hipped peasant women sit still.
The languorous earth seems to ripple in this rosy light,
The air's sweet and close, and its waves bring now heat, now a chill.
O Lord of Light, those dumplings and home in pink light! O Lord of Light, those dumplings with sour cream and kiss! A thousand cats
crinkle their eyes here, and sleep until night, And knee-deep time stands in lush lilac and warm lazy bliss.
And, lying across women's laps, is a child, huge and stout,
As if in salt water suspended, luxuriously nestling.
The evening is rocking. It turns into pearls all the sounds
Gates squeaking, hens grumbling, and, filling the air all around
The fatal, autumnal soft sound of straw rustling.
How fine feels the boy! And this lunatic age feels so fine! What rocking and rolling! This stout ark, the village, sails on. There aren 't
any foes here, the edges are all silver-lined, The raspberry light is a living protecting cocoon.
I dare not to stir, wrapped, enchanted, in pure glasslike sound. The washing and wells are like something of glass in a cup. As cranes
trumpet loudly, the village gets moving, southbound, And soon melts like butter, like wind-driven thin wisps of down, The hem of her
twilight grey skirt with her hand pulling up...