Kovič Kajetan:
Fever
The hills are piled up in the noontime.
The stableboys come driving
the wet mares up from the river.
In the bushes hang
the swollen cornel berries.
Pale red shadows
rustle under the oak trees.
A strange milk
drips from yellow flowers.
It’s going to be cold.
There’s some terror in the air.
Young boys bolt across the stubble field
and in the dark, solitary wood
tremble like little dogs.
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