A woman is standing
at the window.
She's looking outside.
She's looking to see
who's there.

The boat to another land?
Service suspended. Still an island,
isolated. She's stopped eating. Doesn't
drink. Sleeps in a white nightie.

On a platform under Mayakovsky's face
- which praises jeans, a bit too baggy -
waiting, as if we're thinking. Beside a house.

With a woman
at the window
Her face pale
behind the unkempt hair.

Say thank-you, for chrissake, please
and always ask politely, politely.

I rang the bell, banged at the door
and called her name a few times.

Then there's a woman
standing at the window.
It's my mother.

She says: I'm your mother,
Don't think of it, all the boats are burnt.

Translation: Francis Jones