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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2005-10-30 | | Submited by Constantin Enianu Night wet, oppressive, one could drown outside; In thick fog: red and wearying here and there Burn sadly street-lamps without gleam of light: A wet and dirty pot-house, as it were. Still darker on the outskirts seems the night… Sad hovels are now flooded everywhere, A dry and bitter cough is echoed wide Through crumbling walls dilapidated there. Like Edgar Poe, I am returning home, Or like Verlaine, quite liquefied with gin — On such a night nothing can worry me. And then, with steps of strange enormity I grope about some time at my own home, Tumbling, tumbling again, bawling within. Translated by Alfred Margul-Sperber
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