Last night Death drove its hand into my room.
Through the gap of window
that long hand, like the feeling-power of a blind man,
advanced a bit towards my bed.
My wife was pouring water on the head of our baby.
Her eyes were winkless as if they had been two pieces of stone.
Her two breasts were swinging in weight of milk
as if they had been two ripe fruits.
The shower of wate, like the sound of cascade,
spread shivers within everything.
The light of lantern started shivering just like the
feathers of a peacock.

And that hand, I noticed, came near the pillow
its pulse swollen, nails uncut and fur shaggy.
I wished I had shouted.
But in front of Death I can never make any sound.
My anger tempted me to grasp that hand.
But I knew well about the energy of Death.
Would I then pray to Him? No.
Death is deaf and fast like the horse of Chengiz
Khan ..
- Who ? Who ?

The shower of water suddenly stopped.
My wife stared at it.
There was only the waterless pot into her naked
hands.
Buttons of her blouse set free.
In her tearless eyes, there was nothing
but a heart-penetrating sight.
I looked at Death and noticed
it's retreating towards the window, rolled up like
the tail of a dog
its nails uncut, pulse swollen and fur shaggy.