[at Night, When Old Wounds Burn Me] Poem by Hubert Kielpinski

At night, when old wounds burn me,
My conscience burns through my chest.

I'm waiting for honest news,
Not sincere ones will also bring me joy.

I sit as if in the fog and look,
Ahead? Or to the far sides?

What's burning my chest now?
Conscience? NO. Disgrace? Possible.

The cigarette smolders on its own,
I don't even smoke it anymore.

Wine ages in glass,
I don't drink it, it makes me sick.

This wind that blows into my nostrils
Pushes odors. It's beautiful.

But the birch that stands in the distance,
He's waiting... Until I go dancing alone.