(Translation by ALICJA MARIA KUBERSKA)
Old women cough, stepping onto brittle ice
They are masters of the game
of postponement
at any price
It is not the rain beyond the window
nor nostalgia
On the pavement, the allowance of misfortune
is being used up
Experience speaks, its voice raised.
Eyes grow used to drastic images
to skewed proportions
The pupils begin to constrict
sensitive ears are bolted shut
witnesses are summoned
to truth and untruth alike
Blood sinks indifferently into softened clay
Spring water wells up
So little remains
of fragile habits