The Draught

Big, round stones covered in moss:

cold turtles marching with the slowness of centuries

to the seasonal ryhthm

of light, wind, water and ice. 

We take a glance - the bus has already passed by,

its windows gabbling sight after sight,

landscapes, people and words are rushing along

against the wind, extinguishing one another. 

This lively tumult is pretty, only the draught

coming through the gaps makes me feel cold.

Other people's time just doesn't fit me,

like the jacket I borrowed from a friend.  
 

Translated by Sadie Murphy