What is missing is a speck of frivolous playfulness
To call autumn the ideal season
For weeding out all barren dreams
New harvests are necessary so the land
Must be readied for them
For a change, we grow momentarily irresponsible
Just a touch, just to test it out and see how it feels
So we leave open our books, unfinished they remain
And we decide not to go to the bank
For a new notification about our old bills
Let them have a rest
The clerks and the per diems
We are definitely used to working from enthusiasm
And living out of love
On top of it all, we grow childish
We surrender ourselves to the city
Which fills our eyes with its grotesque images
And try to forget
That we are a part of the scorned tribe

We sit cross-legged amid the park’s greenery
And we take out the pressed papers
Containing our last poems
And leave the words to fly away
And have them latch on as leaves to the barren boughs


Translated by: Bela Gligorova