In the cigarette smoke of dead soldiers
in their metallic shouts take it all off
as blades of rich reflections cross
on the fingers of a banker who applauds
in the hungry looks of impatient adolescents
who can’t stand it any more, urging her to strip
before their explosion destructively erupts
all over the pulverized stage
from the shining tips of false brassieres
I give rhythm to the hard striptease of history
endlessly playing on the drums of the Balkans
an old African song of Chicago
Translated by David Mason & the author
[From The Treasure of the Balkans, (1982) 1988]