Sunday, January 1, 2017




she met
her past.

She had hoped,
that it vanished into oblivion.
But now she knows that it does not fall silent.
The past days are still beckoning.

On a short, one-way
– like life – street
she wanted to see the old house
where the painting on the wall had signified
her love.

Somebody was renovating the facade.
Painting over the inscriptions
and shouting from the height:

don't worry, it will be alright!

She has heard these words before,
the voice sounded different:

don't worry, it will be alright.

On the wall
of tenement with no prospects
the mark of time has disappeared.

On a short, one-way
– like life – street
the words can be painted over,

but there is no paint
to cover up the memories.


From the orchestra of sensations
only moments are frozen in time.
They remain,
and last like inclusion hidden in amber.
Past veiled with the memory
of stone nature.

My mind is a collection of beads from the past,
monads of memories
immersed in the frantic whirl of the events.
Beads of the future crystallize
into vagueness.
Coincidence will materialise tomorrow.


What am I doing here?
Am I taking up my time?
I look for youth
amongst the young people.
Thought mirages are like
aviation into good and evil.
I listen to the stories
about the wonders of the future.

What am I doing here?
Am I taking up their time?
I seek for antiquity
amongst the old people.

Life is not a pendulum
and it never swings back.
There is only
a motion of memory and oblivion.

And I
am listening to
what still remains –
inverted time.

Translated by Marta Szara- Turton

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