Hoping it will be you at every noise I come back
anxious to the window and frustrated return to follow,
by the swinging of the rocking chair,
the clock's tick-tack.

Whose hands, as scalpels, at each movement go on tearing my heart.

I don't care any more where will you be or with whom. . .

I only wish you would come back - even inebriated -
and vomited in the floor and insulted me and hit me as usual. . .

Now the clock`s gong blows in my face three in the morning.

The forgotten television mutters in a strange humming
and projects in the dingy carpet colored vertical strips,
meaningless as my life.

I go to and fro in the gloomy room saturated
with your cigarette smell and the echo of your growls. . .

Four more blows greet the first sun rays.

I return again frustrated from the window
and, when passing by the cupboard ,
absent-minded pick up yours seventh day's mass invitation
and return to the rocking chair where I resume my waiting. . .