By Źmicier Kres
Translation: John Farndon, Jenya Mironava
***
„In the prison of your consciousness
You can always leave your cell,“
I comfort a friend in a letter
Yet I see for myself – a hole
In that old shirt, once father’s
As well.
***
A scrap of salo
Spotted in the prison swill
„First snow,“ I overheard
Some way off, the words
Of a friend – the floor janitor.
***
I see the future of man—
And he is not like us.
To us, he is disabled
Lacking two glands – about five grams.
And by how many illnesses poorer,
And to how many feelings numb.
Vestigial adrenals, like windows in an atrium,
An organ of war.
***
There is a front.
They shoot there
And sometimes dying’s not so frightening,
For bullets occur unexpectedly.
And beyond the front
They bury them.
And there is more death…
Departing the market
She dines there
For a while,
Relieving her rotten
Appetite