For hours I am in my room, watching the closet.
How will I react to her when she finally emerges?
Will I chew my nails? Will I speak to her of Blake?
She will tell me that she’s not interested in hell.
I have been in the room for hours, whistling,
watching the closet out of the corner of my eye, crushing my hat
between my hands. When she emerges
I will raise the curtain, point to the balcony,
tell her that farther off a sun is burning
that doesn’t want to die,
but she will tell me that she has no quarrel with the stars.
My heart is pale, my hands are cold,
my gaze is fixed on the closet.
when she emerges
I will pass for an apple, a soft hand,
a coat on a hanger,
but she will say that she’s not interested in my books.
Tonight she will emerge from the closet
once more she will request my heart, request her fee:
she will question me.
Translated by Mark Weiss