Between me and you
a few negligible centuries
flutter like a curtain in a window.
Here they are: a divan, chairs, candlesticks on the tables,
paintings in thick frames, vases
and a corridor that you walked through on
a sunny day like this, quite at ease,
as if this were never to come to a close.
I do not hunt for specters, only wait
for you to glisten deeper into the room
through the fine fabric complexion of the screen.
Beyond the windows the sun sets and petal by petal,
the roses and your face withdraw into innocence
at the close of summer, just before
colors of the paintings and odors of the gardens
can soak into your gracious 11-year-old blood...
I can never walk the road
that the Earth rolled over
all the way from you to me.
When the time comes for you to move on, I am gone,
and it is your tears that wet my eyes.

English Translation from Martin Solotruk