I HAVE NOTHING BUT THE FEET OF A FLEEING WOLF

(translated by Brigitte Orešnik)

I walk in the street and look at people.

I look at their feet and ankles.

Once there was a man

whose feet I would kiss.

He even stepped on my hand,

but I felt no pain.

When my eyes met his,

the world was mine.

There was nothing

I could not have.

Then I killed him.

It happened on a warm night

when the sunset was as red as blood.

Like so many times before

I bent my head to his feet,

and his foot pressed against my neck.

In that moment I turned into an animal.

Writhing wildly

I leapt to my feet

and looked at him from top to toe:

and so he died.

Now I have nothing but the feet of a fleeing wolf

and lungs which long to breathe.