Dear drizzle, which washes swallows,
they are sparkling like the jasper knobs
in the quick game behind the window,

I am searching for the written rules in the attic,
the pieces of paper are being creased by fingers
and guano is crunching; this not-a-world

becomes the world. It hurts most
and then seems to be fate or a soap
being pecked at by hens near the well;

dear drizzle, do not give a shit,
fall like a torch on the dry forest,
like a sentence

break off the solemn conversations;
leave the cryptogram in the thicket,
lie on the roof and wait for a sun.

tłumaczenie: Marcin Chruściel