translated by Nikoleta Telidi
We are in the grey mouth
of the winter’s dog.
Yesterday, on the way back home,
I saw a dead rabbit
on the asphalt, rotting
the pigeons of the square were tearing up its flesh.
You, traveler,
what do you feed yourself on your trip
to the west?
Photo: A.P., Aachen, January 2014 | Verses: unknown poet
