the night lies
like a dead man\'s violin
on this street
you feel like a hermit
at the end
the rustling of the leaves
breaking something
that shouldn\'t be broken
and the blue things
that are supposed to happen in old age
tug at the sleeve
like a child
with bare eyes
Zhadan walks
from house to house
like St. Nicholas
leaving on windowsills
silence
of torn out larynxes
for those
who get up in the night
to heat milk