Bunker
April. Trees glow white and pink.
It’s a sunny day. Finally, you can go biking,
Leave town by the road along the barracks, then down
The gravel path through the garden allotments.
The bike chain creaks monotonously. On either side
Of the path you pass dumps, warehouses, plants.
After that there’s only the endless cemetery and fields.
In between, sheathed in elm trees, there’s a grayish
Elevation. That’s probably a bunker. Right, a bunker.
In form it looks like a hockey puck.
At the entrance, a bottle with unfinished drink stands guard.
After a moment’s hesitation, you leave your bike under an elm.
Three steps… Threshold… And suddenly you’re absorbed
In warm, moist darkness. A few minutes pass before your eyes
Adjust to it, before the darkness releases
A rag pile, pallet, dilapidated motorcycle.
The wind here keeps captive a whole army of leaves.
Gloomy place. Even more the odor.
Better to take off, else you’ll have bunker-nightmares.
About face…Threshold…Three steps…On the bike and away!
April. The trees glow white and pink.
It’s a sunny day. The fields grow green.
You take the cart-track back home, then down
The gravel path, passing dappled arbors on either side…
Let it be that spring again…Let the trees glow white and pink…
Too bad that only one thing from this spell will be fulfilled: someday
They’ll take you out of town by this road by the barracks, then down
The gravel path. And there the moist, warm darkness will absorb you.
Translated by Małgorzata McElfresh and W.Martin