The ones who don't belong love non-belongers. Love more.
Awkward city noises wake sleeping monsters
in beds of threatening size, in which through barred windows
dark and light flows in, kindling beastly passion
but the ones who don't belong love the non-belongers. Love more.
In the corner behind the four-door wardrobe forgetfulness hums.
Turning over greasy pages in the family calendar
with thrifty recipes, descriptions of insects, photos,
down-to-earth advice, perhaps how not to die before one's time.
The ones who don't belong love non-belongers. Love more.
Forgetfulness has a werewolf's countenance. With a dark blue
tongue it examines, examines once more all the facts.
A specially-numbered year thousand nine hundred and sixty
on the cover of the book which smells of Dachau's gas.
Those who don't belong love non-belongers. Love more.
In late autumns they love when slimy leaves cover front windows
of cars, muddy floors, raisins of sweat on palms,
they love by the sound that wrecks the nerves of silence,
they love with the plump coal, which, when pressed forcefully,
draws squiggly features on midday rest's golden skin.
"Hello werewolf!" The holidays behind the barred windows
do not belong to us. "Keep your pain to yourself."
Those who don't belong love more.

Translated by Margita Gailītis