Is he really here - the beams of light intersect,
More correctly, a blade of erroneous retribution...
I was not quite twenty years,
When in the doorway my throat was cut.

He grinned openly - not cunningly
He made the impression, that he did not deliberately want to fight,
(And suddenly) - a knife under the lower rip
And away - not pulled out, not to get dirty.

Over with the wailing! It is not your fault -
I was deceived by the smile und kindness.
A ray of the setting sun has evaporated in the doorway
And hid behind the dustbin...

Thank you however, that I do not stand in the water meadow,
And the blade advanced a bit deeper
And the handle banged on the glazed tiles,
But I fall - already don’t remain standing.