day 22: mi o vuku

and he shall appear, in the clearing in front of you,
when the moonlight makes blue.

From hell should he come, traipsing with the rags
of clothing hanging, dragging from his matted fur,
from easy tangles with the dead who fought to come back.

Long thread of thirst hangs from his snarl, decayed and spotted with red,
but for the mottled skin-and-coat clinging to and hanging
from his ribs, you’d think he was starved, and in a way he is--
his hunger is never cured.

He does not pull his ears back yet,
and his sunken yellow eyes never leave yours--
he knows this fight will be easy.
He knows you will fawn.

But mi o vuki, znamo za vuka,
and nothing happens really,
and this is not who he is.
His voice is warm, and doesn’t speak your name.
There are runs of the forest that he shouldn’t have gone down,
but there are spots of sunlight through the canopy
where you happen upon the two of you,
hand-in-hand, making him laugh easy.

He lives where you couldn’t, where
you’d burn up in the shade.
He is fine, and you don’t need him, and he doesn’t care.

He does not hunt you, if he hunts at all.
You don’t need him from hell.
He doesn’t call.

You won’t, and you’ll clear from your vision,
forest green again with light,
but admit--it’d be nice if he did.

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Source: https://blog.ted.com/40-idioms-that-cant-be-translated-literally/