Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne
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110

XII. In the pull of antagonisms

I’m young, my life has been but fancy,

what a hated peasant, alien and stray,

a flung-out frozen splotch of standing snow.

The Hungarian gets sloshed and my thoughts

bode ill – worries churn – being and transience –

I’d drink, though my worker-self won’t allow good wine –

swill-blinded, I stomached it, and it was fine.

Thus I barely lived, knowing this country’s a carcass-well

– imbalance is the Hungarian pain-foible

behind which, the deeply-rubbed spine of truth –

I don’t know who pushed on what – new will,

duties - then misery, self-knowledge, zeal –

whatever – my soul-pair wants to while away –

and I wait for night-darkness, somewhere among oaks.