On dark nights gods come.
They walk between the houses
like tall black towers,
with darting eyes.
With hard hands they feel the roofs,
they speak the language of men
who lived on the earth before us
and died and went away.
In the morning sometimes there's a rock in front of the door
and a broken stone wall at the side of the road
and in the field the print of heavy foot
and in the sky the reflection of violent storms.
- Gregor Strnisa