One of these mornings when it's not enough just to wake up.
You don't really live here, your voice insists while the wall
adds, and you're not alone. Your face shuts itself in the bathroom asking
to be left alone. So then you better take a walk
right away, or at least pretend: a relaxed stroll,
like coming back from church on Sunday morning.
You pause at the crest of one of the hills.
Other people already there in their uncomfortable clothes
looking like dark trash bags from a distance. We don't stand too close
in case we hear each others' hearts. The wind at our backs
grows stronger and slowly moves us towards the exit.
Translated by Frank L. Vigoda
Roman Kažmierski (wg obrazu Jeana Dubuffeta pt. Dhotel nuance d'abricot
wyd.wirtualne w portalu "panowie rynsztok i dno" 2006