what am i doing here,
god damn it, why at all
am i looking through some
fucking and unclean window…
what about me, here on the road
of bytes and bits and forgotten meetings…
do you see me in these verses, do you find
me? it’s getting harder for me: to look for yourself
through mists of memories and through touches for which
you doubt that are invented, that is too hard
even for me… let me not think about
senselessness. let me not think: it’s cold tonight.
the cold sneaks on me like a greedy vulture,
i keep myself warm over images that may have happened,
i linstock with scents that may have had moistening me,
an angel machine from gathered crumbs of time.
i listen to the music of the earth, played
through an orchestra of naked bones and cold winds.
in front of me a road of straightened lines, in front of me
erected stands the world moistened in cold and smiles.
the same question again, and the answers are mute
like empty tombs… the orchestra is at eternal rehearsal
and permanent interrogation. within the words sludge
mould and greenish patina of sediments: simple time.
what am i doing here, what’s the sense of this night?
can i feel, or all i can do is to think?
would i know to answer when asked, or
i’ll be quiet as an unsound mute ill of memories?
Translated by the author, edited by Elizabeta Bakovska