Trinity Journal of Literary Translation
Winter Path in A Minor Oftentimes red orbs emerge from the branches, Soft and black blanketed the long snowfall. The priest provides the dead a funeral.
Nights are occupied with masked festivities. Then wind-tossed crows sweep over the village; Wonderful folktales are recorded in books. An old man’s hair flutters in the window.
The transit of demons passes through sick souls. The well freezes in the courtyard. In the dark
Ruined stairs collapse and there blows a wind
Through old tunnel shafts that have been sealed shut. The palate smacks of the frost’s heavy spices.
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