I get up at 5
and am in bed before
that number.

That it may be is not enough
for a history.

I get up at 5
and seek before that
number-under the table
in the tepid water,
between three forks -
that joy will be
morning - that joy will be
a golden spoon
- it is not Jerzy, who
is not Josip, is not a squirrel,
which jumps in the dark
wood and writes joyous poems
for children.

I get up at 5
and am in bed before that number -
that's not fine handwriting
for New Year or for autumn,
for a bottle of champagne, in Vari}akova street,
over my room, looms
the white stone of Krk, a man
and a woman with a creel on her back, between
fig trees, olives and the northerner -
they're almost at the top of letter A.
(Which as we know ...)

Jerzy, Jerzy, the squirrel jumps
and blows out the candle
over the deep
water of the Danube.

Translated by Stipe Grgas