You can’t think of time,
Lying down in a bed which isn’ yours,
or anybody else’s,
as each time it opens
as a blank sheet,
always on a new page.
And so —
hotel people have no past,
do not miss,
do not cry,
do not age.
Regardless of how narrow a corridor is,
they do not pass through one another.
No one belongs to anybody.
A breakfast table lavish with loneliness,
grunted greetings, quickly curses,
never to remember one another,
to pass in the streets, unrecognized,
walls’ night’s delicacy undeceived.
In a hotel, the poems that grow
have the longevity of soap bubbles,
are as short as minibar bottles
and as interrupted as receptionists’ smiles.
Hotel clocks show
that if Now darkens here,
then it is still Yesterday in a different city,
and in another one, Tomorrow hurries up for work.
What sense does it make then
to turn around in an unknown dimension,
where you are weightless,
where nobody is going to shoot you in the temple?
Translated by Paweł Sakowski
EN 
MK