I begun to go out like a troubeling boy in a grey day
with hair combed like fire, filled with fire,
I am the last and waiting on the long row
to buy the bitter victory in the second waiting line.

They told me: crasy troubeling boy cover by spines,
why do you shout on the farm market like a bird with a beak,
No wonder! You are the inherit’s son eager for words,
All day and good for you saying meaningless words,
Slow down troubleling boy!

After midnight I was stuck at the house’s entrance,
with two white paper slips, and two poems.
with hair combed like fire, covered by fire,
Await the fortunate morning connected by light....


Translated

John Hodgson