Autumn Afternoon
The light of the last sun
elongates the faces of labour in the tin wheels
the smoke before our plastic incineration
hints at something that we are missing
we don’t see the mist we’re in
we can’t reach the sky above it
we are missing something we never learn
we are missing something we’re coming back
with every circle to ourselves
we are missing something
we are going to burn
the fire of the presevervative inside us shall burn
we’ll think about the allergic reactions of our packaging
concrete is our pillow
we shall not see the forests
nor hear the movements of the green giants around our houses
the papers of the roadsigns shall become nothing
when we wrap the silk from the last bugs
around our chicken necks
Translator: Milan Damjanoski