Mike Horwood 

Translator

In a small town in the Italian Alps,
a Ukrainian nurse
stands under magnolias in a park.
It's winter, and an old, shaggy,
white dog is pulling at the leash
when a clang stuns the air
as a churchbell starts to ring.
The small white dog
starts to bark,
fiercely, with rasping breath.
„Heart attack“ vibrates in the air.
The church won't stop,
neither will the dog.
The volume of horror increases.
Like rivals
animal and church
tear at the hearts´ rhythms.
And nobody notices anything yet
in the park under the magnolias.
Now now now now now now now

I heard it on the radio:
in ancient times, the pig strolled freely
around the house,
eating man's shit.
It grew fat, had a litter.
The man then killed the pig and ate it.
After dinner, he went to a bush
somewhere behind the house.
The pig´s offspring knew the smell,
went to the bush to eat.
And so on.

Then it turned out that history was a spiral.
Returning to the roots,
the pig took along
many finer tools
and more articulate attitudes.

On the manor house clad in scaffolding,
a flag is waving like a rag.
A national flag. Torn and shabby,
it doesn't care which nation it belongs to.
The fabric, worn by wind and rain,
the threads, sickly. It doesn't want
its tired molecules to represent anyone.
I stand under it on the asphalt
and say: "Come into my cave!
Come away, into my cave, matter!"
The Nike running shoes on a happy daughter: slave work
has given birth to pink, despised polyurethane.
Paper in the cupboards of anxious academics and clerks:
their life's beautiful, pale and silent victim.
The warm shiny metal of the jeep that killed a pedestrian.
The watercolour-like photo of the weak member of parliament.
The flag is waving. Come, fabric, colour, and texture!
Come, graphic form of the letter!
Come, let's hug each other and sleep!
Come hide yourself in my cave, matter!