Big, round stones covered in moss:
cold turtles marching with the slowness of centuries
to the seasonal ryhthm
of light, wind, water and ice.
We take a glance - the bus has already passed by,
its windows gabbling sight after sight,
landscapes, people and words are rushing along
against the wind, extinguishing one another.
This lively tumult is pretty, only the draught
coming through the gaps makes me feel cold.
Other people's time just doesn't fit me,
like the jacket I borrowed from a friend.
Translated by Sadie Murphy