Give me those, papers, tobacco, filter, this
time after the war will never end. Dew, the morning chill,
this is how September starts, September
of second-hand citations.
You understand... or are you
too young? Then you can just watch now how
history continues while I'm making a roll-up, exactly
the same technique as ever.
The pears are over-ripe. A land rover, a man.
The pears just pattering down on
to the roof when he props his ladder up and climbs,
higher and higher.
Translated by Catherine Hales
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem