Ilun dago.

Kanpin bat dagoela dio seinaleak
eta harrerara sartu gara zuzenean.

Hutsik dago.

Ez, ez dago hutsik.

Lo zegoen gizon bat altxatu da
etzanda zegoen banku luzetik «bonsoir» esanez.

Hormetako siluruen ahoei begira idatzi ditugu gure izenak
hezetasunak jandako erregistro liburu zaharrean.

Epel egin dugu lo utzitako furgonetan
baina laino usainak iratzarri nau goiz,
nire gorputzak nahi baino goizago,
goizegi.

Hutsikeria, karabana eta auto zaharrak.

Laku marroi bat.

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It is dark.

The sign says there is a campsite
and go straight into the reception.

It is empty.

No, it is not.

A sleeping man rises up
from the bench he was lying on saying «bonsoir».

We write our names in the old book of record damaged by the moisture
while we look at the mouths of the catfishes on the walls.

We have slept in the borrowed van
But the smell of the fog has awakened me early
earlier than my body would wish,
too early.

Void, caravans and the old cars.

A brown lake.

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