I write the last verses of my life.
From where do I look upon my life?
For instance, from the wax museums.
Is there life in them?
Something flutters like wings in the air
like curtains in a light breeze.
Is there air between the wax figures?
Is there something resembling my life?
Is someone writing the last verses?
(Do last verses exist? Do verses exist
at all?) I write the last ones.
What have I seen, what have I known (if they exist) in them?
I am a mute man. This is a mute land. This is a
mute land, I am a mute man… I am
mute… mute… mmm. Man.
Translated by Gorjan Kostovski