All those people, still seated
in their cars, in the afternoon
before it ends, work already done.
One hour, two, three.
They wipe their sweaty hands
on pants, or on the seat.
They smoke, and gaze into nowhere.
A feeling of being digested, slowly,
inside intestines, inside other intestines,
inside a Japanese, a Russian, box,
inside the box of God:
packed together in layers, decorated
on the outside with satellites.
And further, further, all is unclear to the eye.
One hour, two.
In no hurry, they ignite their engines
and turn out of forgotten streets.
© translated by Rimas Užgiris