An Ordinary Street

There are no tall buildings on my street,
no lindens, no olives, no green locusts.
At times it seems like a withered tree,
where migratory birds alight by chance.

My street is small and has no name,
with ordinary joys and ordinary cares.
Were its eyes not scorched by the hot sun,
nothing could bring it close to the world.

No one but me walks down my street,
and at evening, once the silence is sleeping,
only then it awakes, alarmed and beguiled,
beguiled by the voice of the distance.