In November. And the clouds will gather

translated from Lithuanian by Irma Šlekytė
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The world, deep in sleep, a window and an overcast
glance, there’s no one to wake me up, the darkness slowly
engulfs the light of day, it’s difficult to discern what
time it is, everything recedes somehow: the fog, the window pane,
I need stronger glasses, increasingly expressive rituals.

I don’t want to get up in the morning, I growl and build tents
from bedsheets like a child; it is but an echo, I can’t rekindle
the joyful game. The broth is tasteless, no one chases
the shadows out of the corners; now I think to myself
I’ve been living such a lukewarm life, it’s not even November yet.

The forest and the trees, the fading bedding, the winter berries
and birds still not yet red, I plod down the empty roadsides,
soaked in the freezing Autumn rain, the raindrops on my short eyelashes –––

I try to repeat, to answer aloud, I hoot my laughter
at the entrance of the hall of death, having to rebuild my vitality from ashes,
I need blood and milk, but my veins are barren.

I must lean my heavy head back, get drunk with dampness,
kiss the silent passer-by in the city, worship nudity, celebrate
All Saints, compose a litany on hunger,
survive this month.