She will live and this is a motive of happiness
For him here who remains hunched and conscious
Of the therapeutic powers of departure’s abandonments
Rationalization so that escaped can be survived
But from which place and where to run, Rhetorics
Talking to oneself will not renew anything
Return nothing to no one neither body neither body
As it becomes an incorporeal memory
Even though awakened live wild young
Framed by an old man’s combinations of pleasure
I do not think that I am writing a love poem
I think I remember without distancing
Into immaturity a certain story that matures
From ruins from the hell of indecision from loneliness
Doctor, did you ever love, Doctor
My chances are great but possibilities zero
Say thus when there is no whole when missing
Is that other side of that same story, Broken off
Seeking its new fresh completeness
Finally awakened and thrown into the world
As if by chance nonetheless opened a flower of womanhood
From the monologue: “What are you doing to me, What are…
I will always, just, I will always…” I then interpret
Foreign words held as my own, foreign
Truth grown into incomprehensibility
I do not think that I am writing a love poem
I think I remember the inessential superficialities
Then why are you so professional, so
Removed from the cashed lives of others
On this dirty, profitable bed, Doctor?
(Nikolai Jeffs, “Vilenica”, Slovenia, 2003.)