In the city, the day doesn't droop further than dusk,
my mind stays in the ring of mediocre poems
and smallish situations,
lungs hurt
and stick up during the night,
I have to clean up someone else's
mess in the morning,
on the days I even find it possible to clean up.
In the city, no one cares
that the summer's in a major key, autumn in minor
- shiny commercials won't be a good fit either way
and they don't care about my pain.
Maybe they have enough of their own.
I feel crazy
saying any of this
in the city,
outside of these pages.
U gradu dan ne klone dublje od sumraka,
moj um ostane u krugu osrednjih pesama
i sitnih situacija,
pluća bole
i slepe se preko noći,
pa jutrom čistim tuđ nered,
onda kad se, uopšte, da čistiti.
U gradu niko ne mari
što je leto u duru, a jesen u molu
- šljašteće reklame se jednakim entuzijazmom
neće uklopiti ni u jedno ni u drugo
i ne zanima ih moj bol.
Možda im je dosta svojeg.
Osećam se luda
da u gradu
išta od tog kažem
izvan ovih listova.