We are standing under the wall. Our youth has been taken off like a shirt from the condemned men. We wait. Before the fat bullet will sit down on the nape of the neck, ten, twenty years pass. The wall is high and strong. Behind the wall is a tree and a star. The tree pries at the wall with its roots. The star nibbles the stone like a mouse. In a hundred, two hundred years there will already be a small window.
[translated by John Carpenter and Bogdana Carpenter]