***

My beloved sun

smells of cinnamon,

evening beneath eyelashes

weaves a silver thread of dreams.

So unbelievably close,

so indivisibly home,

slouched in a time-worn armchair

with twilight at the window.

And outside the window

old cherries sway in the wind,

no more letters written

by our closest friends.

My beloved sun,

a pit lying on a saucer,

the taste of bitter cherry,

shadows thickening.

And a silver fish

flows into the net of night,

and silence lies

down on the stony bottom.

Once more alone in this world.

What else do we really need?

The cherry tastes bitter

with twilight at the window.

Translated by Mark Andryczyk