translated by  Tonia Kovalenko

That's how it usually happens.
A Monday morning dawns and someone
escapes our notice.
He goes out into the street
walking with difficulty
looks over his shoulder
as if pursued by the night.
His clothes smell of Russian cleanliness
and ointment for phlebitis.
He avoids patrol cars, goes past drugstores –
He fears death, even though he's made up his mind
to permanently depart.
Now he is strolling among strangers
he coughs, chuckles
red-faced like a little child.
He rubs his knees excitedly
to brush off Time
and keeps on chuckling
keeps on whispering
It's Sunday today

He reaches out a hand
And suddenly finds himself
In the fields.

The wheat assumed
his body's form.

  A' Pathologiki, Mikri Arktos editions, Athens, 2013