The year 74,
the damned
worst year.
Not coming, I hope, more like this.
In the year 74
every morning it rains,
every bed is smelly,
and the sheets are damp in the bed.
Forgotten year,
lost, you took your beds,
standing year,
clattering the machines of cashiers, pennies year.
I don't know a single day,
I don't know a single female name,
and it consisted of days
and women, weeks, months too brought.
The year 74,
when every night
a metal pipe whistled in the wall
and a shadow stood outside I'm in front of my door.
A man was waiting on the street corner
and pointed at me with his stick,
he had a brown coat,
And before every sip, my glass cracked,
And my wine spilled out.
And my wine spilled out.
And every coat on the rack disappeared and all my wine spilled,
all the glasses cracked in 74,
it's good that this too is over.

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