Every night, at 2 a.m. I go smoke on the balcony
Everything is frozen and foggy
I look around and the world is standing still.
Every night, at 2.05 a.m. a black dog arrives
He stops, stretches a bit, looks at me and then leaves
Between 2.05 and 2.10, I question my purpose in life
Sometimes I try to remember the past and I see the fog surrounding me
At other times, I try to be brave imagining the future
I tell myself: don't worry, something will arrive.
At 2.10 a.m. a trolleybus passes
And that is the weirdest thing
Not my inconsistent memory
Not the shadow of the dog
Not my habbit of smoking at night when it is incredibly cold and white
A trolleybus at night at 2.10 a.m. is the weirdest thing
Because there are no night trolleybuses in this city
There are only night buses
It is as if you expect a dog and you meet a wolf
It is something strange about my expectations.
As if I expect myself to be a wild horse when I am just a deer looking for shelter
Every night at the same hour
I dissolve into to landscape and I question my hopes
From the height of my balcony.
After the trolleybus passes at the same hour every cold night
I start questioning my present
I became a bit savage
I talk about poetry and art all the time and I stopped carrying about anything else
I am sometimes joyful
And at other times stiff, grumpy and sad
I cannot bend down anymore in front of life
And from this island in the snow that became my shelter
I observe time passing
At the same hour every night.
