The dog runs about the meadow as I watch
on. Every so often he stops, sniffs, runs on.
Goes in circles. Sniffs around the mole-hills
mostly. Pokes right into them. It is then
I'm distracted by the phone vibrating in my pocket.
I'll be there soon. What are you doing,
asks a well-known poetess. Are you reading? Writing?
It's probably nice in the park. No, no, I'm confusing
myself. I'm watching mole-hills . . . and a dog
who's sticking his nose in them. Oh, really? I
thought you were working. Well, I'll call you when I
finish. He has now begun taking on the great task.
He digs furiously, sniffing. I'm too stupid
to write smart poems. I run over to him
where he has gone in. I shout, but he pays no
attention. I pull him back, kneel down
next to a tunnel leading to that land
of moles. He's already destroyed one. Behind them,
someone is salving tree-bark, a thin
mole-poet putting together his book.
He'll drag it deeper, into the earth, have it
bound and then through thousands of tunnels
will make its way to the central mole-library
where history is already noted in millions of books.
Once again my pocket's vibrating. So be it.
I get up, move away, the dog watching me, and
when I turn around, he'll know that he'll be allowed
to destroy what remains.

Translation: 2003, Elizabeta Žargi and Timothy Liu