To Jiri Gruntorad

Blue is blue on a white wall,

melancholic,

melancholic it examines a brimming teapot,

the smell of rum became a camomile smell.

You know, when the alarm-clock's tick stops,

we'll get up, insomniac.

I also thought, after that, I'll be different.

But even when I was there J wrote to me: only a little while

and I will see everything through your eyes.

You know, when the alarm-clock's tick stops, we'll get up, insomniac.

We'll see you through your eyes,

the way the rum smelt before,

the scent camomile will exhale.

I cannot think about you all the time.

Maybe, at least, when I'm drinking tea,

the way rum sometimes smelt,

the alarm-clock's tick,

the scent that camomile exhales.

(From Magor's Mystical Rose, 1981)