Sometimes the rain lasts more than
and I have to take pen in hand
to write dissonant lines
in that humid monotony-
to make some modifications
in a desperate try.
Sometimes the sun doesn’t warm up as possible
though Giordano Bruno is still being roasted
in a sparkler, whereas we had to shake the earth,
like a stopped watch;
maybe it would start working again.
Sometimes stars sparkle hither and thither,
while we can clearly see the trees,
with hands in their pockets,
stretched along the street. We can see clearly
how Giordano, with the globe wrapped in a
under his arm, rushes to the watchmaker
with-it’s the very last hope.
Sometimes it’s autumn at times.
Translated by Samvel Mkrtchian