Every day ends in the evening.
All the noise, all ends in silence.
Everything ends with something that's nothing
and suffering becomes a dead letter.
They close the windows here, there, everywhere,
dark shutter-eyes without any reason
embrace my face, pull it to their own.
Every day ends in the evening.
I'm looking for a gate with no angel,
looking for those still open eyes
that tell me: I understand you.
Yet, all the noise, all ends in silence.
They also lock the churches at this time of night,
God wraps himself into his spiraled,
heavy and dense many-pleated coat -
everything ends with something that's nothing.
Nobody may talk as late as that time of night,
the beggars huddle together under caved bushes,
the crickets are chirping. It's evening.
And suffering becomes a wordless poem.
All the noise, all ends in silence.
Everything ends with something that's nothing
and suffering becomes a dead letter.
They close the windows here, there, everywhere,
dark shutter-eyes without any reason
embrace my face, pull it to their own.
Every day ends in the evening.
I'm looking for a gate with no angel,
looking for those still open eyes
that tell me: I understand you.
Yet, all the noise, all ends in silence.
They also lock the churches at this time of night,
God wraps himself into his spiraled,
heavy and dense many-pleated coat -
everything ends with something that's nothing.
Nobody may talk as late as that time of night,
the beggars huddle together under caved bushes,
the crickets are chirping. It's evening.
And suffering becomes a wordless poem.
Translated by: Maria Bencsath
