In a country of light, where I’m dying
in a white house by a blue bay,
I’m not sad, I have a book
from the Marcin Kukhta press.
Worked nights. Read
informers’ reports, personal files.
In a hurry signed sentences.
Sighed. Drank wine.In the morning gave soldiers vodka.
In the evening, by candlelight
called the roll, men and women.
Herded them into a dark courtyard.Took off their shoes, underwear, clothing.
Loaded them into carts. Sent off.
Shared watches and rings.In the night huddled them barefoot, naked,
over ice-cold stones,
in the north-west wind
into the waste land.Huddled with clubs to the edge of a cliff.
Lit with a flashlight.
For half a minute machine-guns worked.
Finished up with bayonets.Dumped the barely dead into a hole.
Buried in a hurry.
Then with a sweeping Russian song
returned to the city.Before dawn, staggered to the same hills
wives, mothers, dogs.
Dug the ground. Fought for the bones.
Kissed dear flesh.
Posted in From Poetry Magazine on Monday, March 31st, 2014 byValzhyna Mort