It is again the beginning of summer
and I go out to the Black River
I place my foot
on a flat rock in the river bed
and the hot stone drinks
the cold rust of rheumatism.
Although dirty and muddy
the river’s current is pleasant to my eyes,
it drags
one by one the fragments of green glass-
(the cold shivers)
stored in me during miserable winter nights
in the prison house.