In February poplars are even sadder
than in summer, frozen stiff. My family
scattered through the whole earth, beneath the earth,
in different countries, in poems, paintings.

I’m on Na Groblach Square at noon.
I once visited (partly from
duty) my aunt and uncle here.
They no longer bemoaned their fate

or the regime, only their faces
looked like an empty antique shop.
Someone else now in their flat,
strangers, the scent of a strange life.

Nearby they’ve built a new hotel,
bright rooms, breakfast no doubt comme il faut,
juices, coffee, toast, glass, concrete,
forgetfulness – and suddenly, I don’t know why,
an instant of piercing happiness.