The haze hangs over the city
like the Virgin Mary’s bowed head
from a fresco far away.
Satellite dishes talk to
angels
trying to determine tomorrow’s weather:
clear, safe, significant
like a calendar with
red dates.
But as soon as the night joins
the shadows to the wall,
you will sneak out towards the branches
like a rare bird
from the other side of a bank-note.
Translated by: Magdalena Horvat