I write a poem every day,
although I’m not quite sure if these texts
should be called poems at all.
It’s not difficult, especially now
when it’s spring in Tartu, and everything is changing its form:
parks, lawns, branches, buds and clouds
above the town, even the sky and stars.
If only I had enough eyes, ears and time
for this beauty that sucks us in like a whirlpool
covering everything with a poetic veil of hopes
where only one thing sticks out unnaturally:
the half-witted man sitting at the bus stop
taking boots from his dirty maimed feet,
his stick and his woollen cap lying beside him;
the same cap that was on his head
when you saw him that day standing
at the same stop at three in the morning
as the taxi drove you past him and the driver
said, ‘That idiot’s got hold of some booze again.’
*