A flying insect came into my room for a moment
—Somewhat larger than a bee, with colorful wings—
It flew around a bit, without buzzing
Then it found its way to the window
And flew away

I was translating a Chekov short-story
A glass of beer on my table
—My room, my books, my ordinary world—
On the tulle curtains the sunbeams of August

It was a witness to my life
This flying insect, just for a moment
Then it flew away
So like a lover, who, for a moment
Joins in my life, then disappears