I cry in the middle of the rose
Every night when I die in the middle of the street
I do not know my front or back
When I sense your eyes diminish in the dark
The eyes that keep me standing

I hold your hands, caress them till dawn
Your hands are white, white again and again
I am scared of your hands being this white
They are briefly a train at the station
I am a man who sometimes cannot find the station

I pick up the rose, brush it against my face
Had fallen on the street somehow
I break my arms, my wings
There is blood, a ruckus and music
And a new gypsy playing the horn

translated by Omer Kursat