From Songs For the Dead Rooster

Today they talked again about the masturbator.
Summer heat attracts plenty of womenfolk to the riverbank,
they display all body parts without exception
with a greater or lesser degree of openness
and inattentiveness.
Some of them have shaved armpits,
others have bruised hips.

"Careful, that guy's there again,"
warned a granny with goats,
nodding towards a willow thicket -
as if this were our problem.
As if he was looking at us through his binoculars,
his breath halting from excitement.

We are always ready to chase him away with sticks
and whistles.
Or, if need be, smash his skull
with an axe or
gouge his eyes with skewers -
let him only try!

But - rest assured -
even after all of this,
already without his binoculars, with empty eye sockets
he will all the same crawl into these thickets,
sniff the hot body of air,
sculpt out of it wet women to spy after,
moan and hum a tune
he heard on the radio this morning,
"We yearned so much for the warmth . . ."

A few more weeks, and August will come to an end,
A few more tries, and the abyss will open.