Nighttime. A street. Lampposts. A chemist's.
Crepuscular, unmeaning light.
You might as well live two more decades.
It's all the same. No room to fly.
You die, but life persists and giggles.
And all repeats itself indeed.
Nighttime. An icy river ripples.
A chemist's. Lampposts. And a street.
Write comment. Nice translation, Anton. Read my poem, Love and Iust. Thanks