Cado domingo tiene su muertito*

Every sunday
has it's little death

if you touched
a purple chest of a pigeon,
it would be still warm
like lunch, which is getting cold
or little girl's laugh
at the end of a tunnel.

A retired rose
withdraws silently,
oh, cruel garden
of everyday massacre -
youth bathing in a bloody
shadow of old.

Yesterday's corpse,
where are you?

*Kazhkokio ispanu majoro posakis. (kuri noreciau ishsitatuiruot ant kaktos ankiek grazus)