there to the east, my son,

where the gunpowder sun rises

blacker than a black dog

angrier than a dog with a black throat

where the black sun of misery rises

hearts abide in basements

where they have more light 

a little boy

wades through the ruins of his home

looking for his mom

he believes so hard that he’ll find her

that he even forgets to cry

he will not find his father

far away, in a crater like a grave

lying there neither dead nor alive

dreaming of his son

eating potato-pancakes

with no apprehension that his beloved 

struck down by the devil’s scourge, stares into nowhere

and the little boy

wades through the shards of his home

looking for his mom, looking so hard

that he even forgets to cry

someone here does not want

us to live, my son

sometimes it seems that way

seems as if they want to drive us out

turn us into ruins

then stand on top of the pile and roar –

a cloud hangs over us

maybe not so visible

but always whispering

sputtering

because those tepid creatures

breathing charcoal fumes

are always conferring

you see, not everyone drinks

the pills pushed on them 

from which fear hatches

as if from eggs

then comes giddiness

and rage and the shaking of fists

all for nothing

however, not all of us are screwed

by invisible screws

into their somber factory walls

so we will not retreat, my son

because our place will be taken by grayer ones

and where the gray ones come, said a certain pair of brothers

the black ones quickly follow 

we’ll hold the line, my son

we’ll shoot back with whatever we can:

the nails we use for the walls of our shed

on which we hang our tools,

the peas that flourish so beautifully

in our garden,

and the letters from newly discovered books:

they will be our shields

we’ll crawl through garden troughs like trenches

we’ll pray to the sun, moon and the pear tree

we’ll rattle incantations

rat-tat-tat let the ones looking for each other cry

when they finally find each other

rat-tat-tat let the father return from the trenches

to find his son

rat-tat-tat let the sun in the east shake off its ashes

rat-tat-tat let potatoes sprout in those trenches

hey, potato-pancakes, we’ll cry

hey, potato-pancakes, they’ll cry

hey, potato-pancakes, thin and crispy

hey, potato-pancakes, fat and undercooked

hey, it’s all the same to us, they’re divine

hey, they’re equally divinely good

we’ll stuff ourselves for the future and go for a snooze

snoring louder than armored cars

and the earth will turn, turning in dizzy delight

among the fields of potatoes in bloom

and then we will face the final fight –

a rather quiet one, rather calm, kind of funny –

with the potato-beetles from Colorado