It’s not easy to wait for
The head of right size
To hang from birth
In a window of an old shop
Whose former owner
Reposes under the earth
Eschatologically bald
It’s even harder to be
A church bell made of felt
On the battlefield of thoughts
Cold as the fingers of a cashier
Counting small change
If someone does stop
Before the dirty window
It’ll be only to eavesdrop
On the boy with the accordion
And to drop a coin
Into a hat turned upside down
To yawn at the sky
Translated by Charles Simic
EN 
MK