Translated by: Almir Chomor
I try to be busy
not to think of It.
I try to prattle about trifles
about girls, with red dyed hair
who challenge bulls
with a fascinating turn of a toreador,
and flies in a sad horse eye,
and a scent, preserved in a forgotten coat.
In peace pensioners die
as if I have lived too long since the war began,
as if I should have died long ago,
but something is being awaited,
in the kitchen, round the radio,
as by the hearth that has died out.