Translated by Miriam Leberstein (2010)
So what, if you’ve written a poem?
Someone says it’s lovely,
someone else – it’s bad.
Someone yawns,
someone coughs.
The sun knows nothing
of the lovely poem.
Nor does the cat.
Nor does the mouse.
And the house is still made of stone,
the table – of wood.
But the water
that I drink from a glass
is suddenly sweet,
and green as grass.
I lift it high –
high above my head
and drop to my knees
three times.
And kiss the table
and kiss the house;
and search in all the corners
for the little mouse.
|