Little men in little towns are obsessed
with their own stature.
The same goes for me, I’m looking for a perfect
little spot for all these little words
in order to electrify my homeland.
But this search for the homeland will someday
be the death of me.
Tom Waits hates me
whenever I try to write
like American poets.
For this little history little words
that can pass each other on a narrow road
should suffice.
Not to mention that try as I might
I will never be able to get rid of the heavy Slavic accent.
In a little town everything is a little toned down.
For example, street-lights are never strong enough
to light up this entire prosaic fresco,
as they can barely embrace a young couple
having a fight, or that linden
to whose smell I have always been allergic
to the extent that it makes me really hate
this little town spring.
I would like – like other little men in big cities –
to really mind my own business, but I am too bloodthirsty,
plus the little parks in my little town have indeed turned
into little cemeteries and I never fail
to rub everyone’s nose into that fact into everyone’s nose, because
the glorious war merits of us little people
are just enormous.
Nobody wants us – little people – for his enemy!
Our condescension, our haughtiness, our haughty-naughty-haughtiness
will always defeat every decent word.
For we are little people,
we are arrogant people,
we are not-entirely-fulfilled-people.
Walking across this wasted land.