When spring speaks in grasses,
I hear the voice that is now silent.
It does not vanish, it only hid itself
In the rustle that disturbs the heart at night.
Do you think I am made of wind?
No, I am the stillness that never sleeps.
From pain that calls gently – not with regret,
But with a memory that is still alive.
I am not of the earth… but I love as humans do.
Thinly, tremulously, to the point of losing myself.
And even as I melt into the silver fog,
I will still be there, where I call to you.
Mavka
21