Tenth Poem by Eugenijus Ališanka

It seems you will soon leave for the place where
granite sleeps: or where smoke
rises lazily upwards like sea grasses
it seems immediately: but you remain right here
exactly the same: someone cast you to this side
with too strong an arm
so lock your fingers together and listen
to inertia's uncomfortable laws: without you
your thoughts would have no-one to come to
: console yourself — they too grow old and die

Translated by Jonas Zdanys