I have forged a grave secret
to sometimes secretly live in another country –
peeling garlic and boiling coffee
in somebody else’s kitchen
walking to the monastery, lighting a candle
in the backyard a congregation of birches converse
in silent tongues
the face splits in a mirror
round and sad it veils itself with golden chanting
come night I leave my body, my fingers, I strip off bark
in the cold dorm the wind covers us with its long beard
come morning I am a young tree planted
in front of the house
a naked bone giving birth to daylight
EN 
MK