«Real people have children. We only have cacti / standing there speechless and cold. / The intelligentsia, where is it rolling away to? / Learned people, where are your sons? I have lived in an environment where there are many fewer / nieces than aunts and uncles. / And not a single Flemis...»
«Hatred! A special added taste to the soup. / The soup’s just soup. Simple stock really, / but with a pinch of salt or pepper / from the heart that hates in vain. Hatred makes the bed, / hatred corrects the notebook, / sweeps the floor and wipes away the dust: / and never lets you out ...»
«Husbands with their doings and nerves, / sense of duty and sense of guilt, / ought to die first, first, / they ought not die second* Wives ought to grow old little by little / reaching even hundred-year limits, / on rare occasions, but over and over again / remembering their husbands. ...»
«People don’t laugh at funerals, / except maybe in their hearts. / For as long as the speeches are ringing out, / breathe evenly. And measure against veracity / the tears or the praise, / knowing that justice / is quietly waiting in the comer.»