On a Sleepless Night
On a sleepless night
when I have no one to read to me
from the Book of Memory –
I recall
a night in a railroad waiting room,
a strange city,
a passenger
whose only baggage
was his pimpled face.
Where had he come from?
Where was he going?
Perhaps he had no home
and slept in waiting rooms
on a bench?
His pimpled face was silent
and remains silent
like a sphinx.
Translated by Barnett Zumoff
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