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Soot
The soot keeps drifting everywhere,
It gives the walls their grayish color,
It's scrubbed each day from off your collar
And combed, like old age, from your hair.
You scrape the blackened windowsill
And paint it bright time and again,
You rub your body raw in vain
And try to bleach the laundry clean
Sometimes a cinder in your lid
Will force an unexpected tear:
The hurt eye, suddenly washed clear,
Sees beauty - or comes close to it. . .
The Charge
We rushed to work, our heads hunched over,
Through a smoky mist that stank of sulphur.
A tram rang in the distance. We were wet
From drizzling rain, and being late, and sweat.
Our nylon coats, inflated by the wind,
Rose up behind each back like angry wings--
The force of charging hussars, raging angels' wrath
Compelled us and we cleared a path
So fiercely that the ground beneath us shook
And no one dared to stop us, dared to look . . .
Then suddenly the tram arrived. Once we climbed in,
a crush of bodies pinned our feathers to our skin.
Only late arrivals hanging outside on the steps
Kept their wings, wind-blown, majestic, and wet.
In a Fever
I dreamed that in a light-industry mill
Where tired women choke and cough up dust
One worn-out woman failed her masters' trust.
She couldn't stick it out to closing time
It's rough but then the pay's not bad, and still
When the night shift's done you can stand in line,
Then get the kids to school with what they need
Instead she broke down, and began to bleed.
Her white twill shirt turned red. Her piercing scream
Burst the factory gates, and in my dream
A horde of women poured into the street.
It overflowed, and no one dared to meet
Them face to face, though Warsaw phone calls warned
That this must stop . . .
The local party hacks
Sank clutching their receivers, drowned
In human seas. One of them yelled: "Hand out some meat,
And then remind these gals to watch their step,
Families can get hurt, better turn back
Now." Others whispered to the guards who kept
Watch over Them, the nation's true elite:
"Don't sweat, boys. It's just women. Running scared.
They're old and ugly, too. We couldn't care
Less . . ."
It was true.
Their hair was gray with grime,
Their faces worn and wrinkled, and their weary
Bodies had paid the price of working overtime.
When they finally came in range, then you could see
That those who yelled at you, yelled toothlessly . . .
No, better wake up. Now. Before a terse
Voice gives the order no one can reverse.
6 April 1986
Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh
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