Inside the number 12 bus which goes by the maternity wing
by the cemetery
on the bus where you can always find
a person with a heart like a blossoming flower
or a flower trampled into the mud
I’ve seen today standing
a beautiful woman in black with a white bouquet
impervious to smiles and words
her spirit elsewhere, expectation in her face
as if she could hardly wait
to meet one who had been away for a long time,
as if going to meet him from the train.
Translated by Viera and James Sutherland-Smith