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My beloved sun
smells of cinnamon,
evening beneath eyelashes
weaves a silver thread of dreams.
So unbelievably close,
so indivisibly home,
slouched in a time-worn armchair
with twilight at the window.
And outside the window
old cherries sway in the wind,
no more letters written
by our closest friends.
My beloved sun,
a pit lying on a saucer,
the taste of bitter cherry,
shadows thickening.
And a silver fish
flows into the net of night,
and silence lies
down on the stony bottom.
Once more alone in this world.
What else do we really need?
The cherry tastes bitter
with twilight at the window.
Translated by Mark Andryczyk