From the basement where rock
and cement are covered with frost,
but water still flows in the pipes,
I rise climbing the wooden steps
away from the Netherworld,
and coming in this room,
sit down before the computer,
leaf through the pages of the collection
of the dead boy gifted
by her, select from among them
another poem, and start to translate.
Wordsworth left free to wander,
life behind him. Do those
who are killed in their youth
on Tunisian hills
become mere boys again,
or is that left for those who grew old,
their brows covered with another
frost, unmelting when the seasons change?
Soon, this short poem done,
I shall take her other gifts
and warm myself as the darkness
fades and the red light of a late dawn
starts to sweep the blue snowfields.
10.01.2026
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