Sometimes the rain lasts more than

(too long)

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

multicolored rag

under his arm, rushes to the watchmaker

with-it’s the very last hope.

Sometimes it’s autumn at times.

Translated by Samvel Mkrtchian