Our old monk dropped in to buy shoelaces,
salt, metal nails for a large wooden table,
buttons for his waistcoat,
cloth for a calotte and a coat
dark silk for pocket
He carried his leather bag,
creased and damaged on some road,
a long belt crossed his chest
glossing in that position.
Apples with thick, rough skin
lay at the bottom of his bag.
Documents, on marriages,
On deaths, births.
He was protected by a sweater with tiny black braids
woven during a long vigil.
Long walk to his chambers awaited
through the woods, silence, tranquility.
Smoke from the chimney went up in the air.
Clear and sunny
weather from tomorrow.
Warm room in a small forest house
with kindling of a stove fire.
Translated by Ivana Maksić