By the very same table, I’m at ease.
I sat here a week ago – now, it’s almost the same.
I’m at ease because I couldn’t say
if it all really happened a week ago.
Memory is not to blame. time is a tic tac,
and it rattles, white, in its empty cage.
As i try to read, the pages grow strange. A high school
kid eats nearby, boredom stretching its black line.
The provinces can behave like an old bull dog:
noble, domesticated, but lazy and covered
with the slobber of gossip. You find
its pups by stores, in second-hand shops, by
your door. What a luxury to just say, I remain.
To say it after long silence in a dry voice
that becomes a rill running through that year and a half.
What happiness to be a damn for a dry river bed,
intimacy for solitude, horror for the breaking night.
Translated by Rimas Užgiris