I am writing you because
I no longer think that it is
dangerous dwelling here after
the break of night. Gates are opened
and closed. People scurry past under
the grand lanterns, it lies in the nature of
waiting that people scurry past.
I am wasting my days here in
idleness. Even in foreign cities
we make ourselves something like a home:
a street, an insignificant block, some ugly
houses. A view. A tree. A verdant
tree we pass in the rain and get attached to
without knowing its name. I do
not want you to be deformed.

Translated by Maria Freij