As Told to the Poet: 4
Once, someone far away wrote me a note saying:
The wind likes collecting the things you keep on yourself.
So what of it? A battered old hat.
At that time, I mistook that phrase for a line of poetry.
because I liked its Biblical overtones.
I looked out of the window, the world was
undergoing changes. While poetry's pupils grew small.
What I wanted to lose were other things.
That day in Egypt, imperceptibly a wind blew up,
after the desert yet another desert.
Feeling muddle-headed, I bent down to pick up my hat,
but watched it distance itself in an instant—only then I realized
what renunciation was.
But no, hold on! I called and called.
Only several paces in front of me, that red-coloured hat
stubbornly trundled away like a sun-setting song
only to fall at last into the tomb of an Egyptian.
The hat by nature seemed to like hiding,
today was merely one of many instances,
but that expanse of wilderness covered in black holes
was also a perfect and well-suited site.
There was no one who could convince anyone, besides
there was never any question of my staying in this place.
A local man (he knew about what had happened)
said to me, for the sake of this incident from now on he'd go
every day to that black hole and shout out "Hello!"
but on that day I suddenly felt there was nothing left
that I kept on myself I couldn't let go of.