Junna Morits

Just tell me, dear grass, how come you to your place, – 
Cut up the air in freshness of your mission,
Tell me about berth of superstition,
Where hides a fern the flower of grace.  

Tell me the secret of your magic words,
Of your allure and hidden aspirations, --
With your green knifes, you lift, in your progression,
The concrete, lying in a few hard lodes.

You go through asphalt in full your rights,
Ready for flood, and ready to be frozen,
… Thus poetry has grown through the prose. 
I pray, dictate me your great canon, Grass!


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, May, 2001