Eva SKRANDE

THE SHEEP

When it is evening and the sheep knock at the door,
I know you are near,
that you have jumped out of the corn
to read the century and her seven grains.
O river, your scent and I collapse in the braille
of evening's husks.
You undo my wooden heart with your mountains.
Gentle barn that drinks my hair,
that laps at my toes like the voices of brides.
O lips that reign gently over fire and night.
Cities of midwives and wheat
rise from our fields to save what is innocent
among baskets filled with the hollows of history.

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