Total darkness.
The light’s off in the kitchen,
and people will go into the room.
The window shut,
they turn on the telly, where a poet
(much loved) says we’re all going to die
and yet
something will remain, just a trace.
Although it was not he, no way,
not he, who said this. Straight off,
all’s forgotten. But
that doesn’t matter. The main thing, a trace
will remain. And to appreciate
this is not worth the days
passing so swiftly, the years, so long ago.
And it’s not even worth
vanity of vanities.
The main thing is the trace.
That it’s evening, dark. That it’s late.
Translated by Daniel Weissbort