I am sick of
the rustle of paper and rattle of umbrellas opening.
In the dark room,
among slumbering carp
and scattered beads,
again I want to be
a willow twig in a jug of water.
Again I’ll forget how to listen to people
and I’ll see my time off,
gazing into the depths of the huge dish.
Hops and haricot beans,
a wild vine and the evening breeze,
will stay outside.
I’ll forget about bread, milk, coffee.
But for several days
the wax-like yellow star
signifies for me
the most extravagant day of the year
and the most pellucid night.
Translated by Daniel Weissbort