ON THE DOORSTEP

(translated by Brigitte Orešnik)

Years ago a light was shining

in the corner of my room.

(Perhaps that is my conscience.)

It spread through the room to the door.

I followed it slowly across the floor.

(Perhaps that is our world.)

I found a table and on it some bread,

but I smashed my knee against a chair.

It doesn’t mean a thing – I have come to the door.

I must open it now, and leave.

It’s dark outside.

The beam of my lamp does not reach that far.

Outside there is nothing at all.

(Perhaps that is eternity.)

What do I want there?

Nothing at all.

There I won’t even be able to see

how the light of my lamp turns red

on the door that closed behind me,

and weakens, and burns out.

In the room, everything remains as it was.