Chapter 7 7

Reading, alas, we always forget who wrote them, on every page, in every In the sentence, what kind of struggle has there been. As on the stage, moving the darkness of the woods grows around the pen, one in flight A seized arrowhead, one stolen from Simulate the feathers of a bird.just now They stand quietly on the bookshelf, so indifferent No memory, like old men in the sun Warm yourself on a street bench. reading, we always forget Fear is a head that fears at dusk own wolf without knowing whether There is a place like a mirror, or a clear spring, in its slanted gaze Put out that yellow flash.we read,

with comfort, to understand How dangerous is Plato's beast, the faint Sleepy tigers only come out to eat people during the day. We live knowing little and longing Knowledge.Like plants, they move towards the light grow we seek justice And we find it only in plants, Among the leaves of the horse chestnut, as forgotten as huge, shaking gently A fern that promises nothing. in the silence.in the music.in a poem.we seek justice, but confuse it with beauty. Feelings are governed by strict laws. cruelty and boredom Turn your back.no way we Knowing that there are only fragments of words, but in complete sentences

Saying that, it seems to us It's a legend.how easy it is to hate A policeman.Even his face, for us Also seems to be just part of the uniform.other people's mistakes too easy to detect.On a hot day, the river Reflecting the mountains and clouds.then live Round as a balloon when it goes on. The spruce stands still, full of shadows and silence Like the depths of the ocean.green eyes, your moist skin, Oh my little lizard.In the night, silent lightning flickering in the sky.that's someone else's mind Burned out peace.someone must Hastily packing up and heading for the distance,

Facing east or west, draw a line escape route. So in the dusty little apartment in Gliwice, In a low Soviet-style neighborhood That is to say all towns look like barracks Narrow rooms will foil plots, There an old wall clock marches tirelessly. Every day he lives again in the gentle September of 39 years, its roaring shells, and in the garden of the Lviv hypocrites, shone The green light of maple and ash and bird, Kayaks on Transnistria, the scent of wicker and wet sand, On that sweltering day, you met a girl studying law, That journey west in wagons, that last frontier, From the students who thanked you for your help in 1968

sent two hundred roses, and other episodes I'll never know, The kisses offered by the girl who did not become my mother, The gooseberry of fearful yet sweet childhood, imagined Withdraw from the abyss of calm before me. Your memory is in the quiet apartment - in the silence Running systematically, you struggle to regain your painful A moment in the century. As the sun goes down, the inquiring pelican just takes flight On the smooth skin of the sea; You watch a fisherman kill a caught fish and cannot help yourself to trust in his mercy, When rosy clouds slowly and majestically Floating to the foot of the mountain in the twilight—

You stand for a while, waiting to see the dolphins —perhaps they will graciously dance the famous tango again— Here, the Gulf of Mexico, you can walk along that wide beach Seeing disgusting billboards and shellfish, and live crabs crawling out of the sand like All the workers in the underground workshops were abandoned. You notice abandoned, rusty loading towers. Strolling along the stone gate, you greet a few anglers who are A few unassuming old men, choosing fishing over sports, just hoped Postpone that last supper. A huge, brick-red ocean liner sails from Monrovia moored in port

like some fantastic imaginary beast boasting its own magic, And temporarily blocked the horizon. You think: you should go to find a place where the sea water flows back, so that people can remember Many, but not deliberately ordinary country places, Tranquil, austere, impassive though rich, with hidden pockets of memory Like a hunter's jacket in autumn, On the outskirts of the bustling town, in a wasteland where nothing happens, no famous actors, Without politicians and journalists, But sometimes poetry springs from nothing, And you start to think that your childhood stop here

Here, away from the long and overly intimate streets— Has always been absent, where no one can take light years or kilometers After calculating the distance, Only quietly waiting for your return, let alone surprise what befalls you.It does not meet you with boasting and say: Don't you know me?I'm from your lost stamp album a stamp, I'm the stamp showing you Your first dolphin, in an unreal, misty blue background.I am the one who stands still Travel signage. My comfortable life, my sixteen years. stars like dancers on the ceiling Start playing, the comet shoulders the mission

Hurry to the far side of the earth. That little explosion on the screen— Speaker explained - in fact frighteningly large and predictable And extremely fundamental. Let us imagine that at this moment The light dims, darkness falls, A gust of black wind blew by. It seems to be raining, and hail, A thunderstorm is approaching, someone is shouting help beg real the stars come back like they come back And their light is going out. This is one of those evenings when the clouds Powerful as a steam engine on the other side of the Atlantic Be friendly with the sun, with the light That sharp, pitiless June light wrestled,

Endure endless changes and filters. Because the city is vast, thousands of people by train or car back to the suburbs after a day of useless work like stuffed with fresh hay Toy fighters in a cardboard box. And the ancient world lies beneath hidden feet, Greek boxer with a broken nose, Sullen, silent, and hungry. in chimneys and from gleaming tin roofs Above the antenna, a storm surrounds But haven't made up my mind to drip yet. Outside the rainstorm, it is the evening, the world Shining gods, crawling. Nothing but gods, Only one most earnest black bird sang the song of ecstasy.

I stand still in the street, nailed to desire, Half pain, half sweet, praying helplessly, for yourself and others, For my mother, who is dead, and for my death, An untamed beast.