translated by Aliona Tabunshchyk

evening

mist presses against my window

it whimpers knocking on the glass

it asks to be let in just for a while

then it promises to leave

but it can’t fool me

I keep the door closed I am afraid

that it’ll melt from the warmth and

it’ll start telling me its story

(that’s what I usually do too

if I feel even a bit of human sympathy)

I can’t listen to the stories anymore I can’t

pile past upon my own past

add sorrow to my sorrows

and suffer from a stranger’s  wound

I can’t wrap in ever more mist

the already so unclear (hidden under the mask

of countless stories) visage of my life