In the old shack at the back of the garden,
next to a red wheelbarrow and a cut down apple tree,
something climbs towards the sky through the porous roof.
Vertical and horizontal lines lead somewhere
and disappear, as if unsure
what shape to take on.
Yet something falls in
the way of living. Being,
but without a noun, the air’s pale dream.
It comes out of emptiness and maims the light.
It longs for something, or something else longs
for it and casts this shadow.
Of dust, cobwebs and mold,
in the pile of musty boards and glass splinters –
something clearly forms on what’s visible.
Nothing,
unclear as to what for,
maybe just to be.
Translated by Piotr Florczyk