Those sufferings are over. / No crying anymore. / In an old album

you look at the face of a Jewish child / fifteen minutes before he dies.                       

/ Your eyes are dry. / You put the kettle on,                

/ drink tea, eat an apple. / You'll live.

                                                (Life Sentence'', Adam Zagajewski, translated")

                                                (from the Polish by Renata Gorczynska

Again a new era has been promised. It's

already here, curled like a fetus. About to be born.

They say it's a new world. But here is the history of its future:

Somewhere at some point in time

documents and papers will be required.

It will be a receptionist at a government office

or a security screener at an airport, but

in every era somewhere in the world

a gendarme is liable to demand papers.

This means: Somewhere in the world a passport will be forged.

And someday an army will invade a city, called

Prague or Baghdad

or New York. Any name is possible.

Many things will happen under cover of night.

Knocks on the door.

Arbitrary arrest.

A father torn from the arms of his child,

His disappearance.

Many things will happen in broad daylight.

Looting

rape

slaughter.

In the marketplace and the stock market,

trade will continue as usual. So will

the pogrom.

Very soon the mob will join in:

Spraying slogans against one minority or another

for one reason or another. A demand

will be made to prohibit entry to the continent, the country

or the grocery store.

At its door a puppy will wait for its master.

Someone will leave behind books and photos,

an old blanket, a magnificent armchair of happiness.

And someone he loves.

But he will not forget to take a coat.

With pockets. As long as he leaves in time

with his face. And with cash.

Many will flee on foot.

Some will escape by train.

There is no escapee without a pursuer.

There is no shelter without a storm.

The world is a rifle butt

The night -- flashing police cars.

At least one person -- perhaps even you? -- will lose

the way, pray it ends. There he is, look,

leaning on the parapet of the dark;

boats going by downriver

and cars on the bridge

grab him

for a fraction of a second.

He jumps.

Or stays. But manages to fall away

like a view through a window.

Your window, perhaps?