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46:3 & 4 (FALL 2000) "NEW POLISH WRITING" ZBIGNIEW MACHEJ
SONG OF THE PRAGUE METRO The day before Christmas I returned home
Muzeum, squashed against
All at once some calves, buttocks,
I turned my head and saw out of the corner
by a red-haired guy with a beard and an earring,
arcing, giving in to him, impatient--
It lasted only a moment (no longer
erection. Full-blooded, if pointless,
ITALIAN CHRONICLE Yesterday NATO air forces attacked Serb
positions in Srebrenica.
Exhausted by the sun and the boredom of the beach
They bombed two Serb tanks... All participants in the attack returned safely to the NATO base in Aviano, Italy. --news agency brief we sat on the terrace at twilight. We had salt in our hair, the heat continued to scorch our skin, encrusted in places with sparks of sand. Supper was over and we were drinking wine. We did not want to think, or talk, or even dream. Digesting, and happily vegetating (and isn't being with one's family on vacation the happiest, most divine sort of vegetation ever?) we were looking out in front of us: on the greyish-red roofs the daylight
was fading
a sea lurked, reflecting the darkness
Since only owls were supposed to
begin their screeching,
and so the darkness could once
again erase the contours
And it was there, in the distance,
Translated
by Elzbieta Wójcik-Leese
and W. Martin |