Virgin made of wax
Sent to a monastery
To learn virtue
Thus speaks little
Exchanges her tongue for a flame
So you’d think only about ashes
Eyeing your own shadow
It’s dark in there
As in a horn of a beast
You went hunting
Across the old forest of your tongue
For the feast
Whose day never came
It’s dark under the hood
Of the executioner
With which his daughter
Plays in the evening
Although the bed
Has already been made
And the wind has blown out the candle
On its way to make music
In wet reeds at the end of the earth
Translated by Charles Simic
EN 
MK