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Meta Kušar, from Ljubljana

'A little beak...'

A little beak is picking up dew
and leaves no trace behind.
The pond watches over the paths of young girls, their despair.
While they are skimming stones, perfumes gather
above the treetops,
and spill across the town.
The scent shows where moonlight has been gliding.
I will watch my tongue.
In the marshes, the phoenix cannot rise.
It floats in on a thick cloud.