I have a penchant for silence. I'm sitting by the window cleaning a watermelon.

 

I imagine a tiger ate the child of the Indian waiter talking on his mobile on the terrace.

It had emerged from black undergrowth and the last thing the child saw were its golden eyes which had collected sunlight by day.

Everyone in the restaurant is inconsolable.

They serve food, count the takings and drink till late.

 

I listen to them sing.

 

One of them has a husky voice and my silence becomes rough on my skin.

Sklona sam tišini. Sjedim kraj prozora i čistim lubenicu.

 

Umišljam da je indijskom konobaru koji na terasi govori u mobitel tigar pojeo dijete.

Izašao je iz crnog šiblja i zadnje što je dijete vidjelo bile su njegove zlatne oči u koje je danju skupljao sunce.

Svi u restoranu su neutješni.

Služe hranu, zbrajaju utržak i piju dugo u noć.

 

Slušam kako pjevaju.

 

Slušam jednoga sa posebno dubokim glasom i moja mi tišina postaje gruba.