English

 

 

 

YOU CAN’T LOOK AWAY

 

 You can’t tell the little girl inside you,
that the street
where she once played the circle game
with the neighbourhood children
never existed.

 

You can’t tell her
that you don’t have a native language,
and that the word “native”
is just a discord of sounds.

 

How do you switch off childhood?
How do you ease the ache?
How do you stop the tears?

 

ON THE NIGHT TRAIN

 

 

In front of my childhood home in my country,
stray dogs bark and yelp —
a thought crossed my mind
on the night train from Vienna to Krems,
and my eyes filled with tears.

 

I have two homes.

 

The one where I live now —
a backyard that opens to Austrian vineyards,
hardly a passerby,
and silence stretching far.

 

The one where I grew up —
a balcony overlooking brutalist garages,
in a noisy, restless, and worn-down neighborhood.

 

My childhood remains in my country,
between Soviet apartment blocks,
on a freshly paved road
where children still play the circle game,
and the neighbourhood dogs
chase unfamiliar cars.