the day has shed its leaves in the park
old people like some coloured labels
are sitting on benches
rheumatic minute hands
dripping an eternity
by the knot of a walking stick

only one of them
has a passing thrill
feels under his feet
inside the earth
dozens of kilometers away
a gold lode

he keeps quiet
doesn’t tell anyone
for fear they might drive him
away from there too



Translated by Petru Iamandi