CIRCLE

You can’t put a straightjacket on your soul.

All the same—it’s spring, and you can see,

just before evening, tiny white threads hang in the wind:

you approach, stand up, clasp your shoulders—

not holding back, you pull at the thread—

and the wooden circle falls

to your hand, and you sketch the circle,

stretching it to the very edge:

o, how cramped it is in that circle all around,

and people live in it, are joyful, and die

Translated by Michael M. Naydan