Friday, August 17, 2012

August Evening

By Sandor Csoori


See, a hand sweeps stars
       from the August sky,
as if my mother swept off the supper crumbs from the table at home.
Her apron, slipping now and then, smells of parsley
       and chives--
The sweet scent of her long-gone garden
sending me to sleep beside you tonight again.


Translated by Len Roberts

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