Olympia, The late film Poem by Marcel Beyer

Too late, too late, on the walls, on my own,
the neon sign, the late film, the folding
seat, too late. You talk in your sleep,
in knife language, I hold my breath,
your face, it's too late, it gets lost in the crowd,
it won't show. Only the moss,
the woodlice, the shimmering curtains,
it's too late, you haven't forgotten,
but I have. The plants recede into shade,
it's damp, you speak. Too late, I said.

Translation: Michael Hofmann