Taufer Veno:
Hamlet 69

each night is a slipping under the surface

listening to the rain as it rots the pile of papers

until in the cup of the morning eternity passes

the sun rises flicks out the razor

your face is wakened by a sliver of metal

you sense the feel of your vein beating

eye hears hand tongue touches time

you rejoice at the life of the razor


your image is mirrored in it

and the world neatly round it

closer to the world’s center you spin


whole worlds on the narrow blade with you

suddenly potent to destroy

what destroying is destroyed.

Translated by The author and Michael Scammell