When You Get Out of Prison

When you get out of prison, we will take a walk together

to old pubs that are now dilapidated banks.

Incurable diseases and supermarkets have spread,

the planet’s lungs are afflicted, exit not allowed.

When you get out of prison, my champion with the magic

beret (otherwise completely naked), we will sunbathe together

in spacious courtyards, where lizards lie, bright green

like childhood times, a nest under a dry gutter,

a water man and the Soča at its source. Someone, not I,

rushes up at this moment and raises his baritone voice,

how it’s time now for surrender, conciliatory

handshakes, de-inked tattoos and other light matters.

Large as a mountain, someone, not I, barges to the door

and leaves drunken company to listen for news from outside

so later he will not be accused of silence, indifferent

public opinion and bird flu, when you get out of prison.