All hands on dreck
So much life: from the small square below the windows
come shouts (the afternoon), screams (the evening),
and swearwords (at dusk). There’s music,
for finally someone across the way has set out their
speakers on the windowsill. There are dogs, and children,
their older siblings. Cars go roaring by,
brakes are squealing (“Stooooop, Angela!”).
A dog chimes in with the mother, a big one, judging by the timbre.
(“Heel, boy! You too, Angela”). This time
it’s over without a thump, a wail, and a siren. Maybe
one day soon – it cannot be prevented.
And here on our windowsill a broadcast is beginning:
pigeons fly down. The cats are watching. Quivering
of tails, chattering, and pricking up of ears.
Only the black flashes of swifts still cut across
something that’s impossible to touch.
© translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones