A bird perched on the old family’s radio set
That brought news from Moscow
Where the snow danced
And the trees stayed awake
All night long
Under the inclemency of wind and frost
Where women,
In the dim light of streets,
After midnight, exhibited their crystal-clear legs
To drunkards, on board of their cars,
And to the night’s stars
Where the vodka and Trotsky’s doctrines
Were reduced to pieces
Under the impatient wheels of the underground.
Poland is at the forefront of squares
And the hats of men with wide moustaches,
In Stalin’s fashion,
In bars,
In the ports of countries that are on the run
Or packaged in hard paper boxes.
Those women,
Subdued by the chilly climate,
Have declined love
Not because they resent a sudden rape
But because they fear crooked, oversized moustaches
Or because of fishermen
Who have overturned the cups of the nation
On the chilly wooden pavement
In protest of fish that never come
The cloud – the tent –  occupied
One-third of the ramshackle frame
The spade was on the shoulder
And the tatooing on the temples
The men’s village was unjust
And the hawk hovered on its chicken
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The sun is on the right side of the wall
Its rays, dispersed like a poor field,
Emit a golden light
Despite the consecution of nights
And the succession of doctrines.
One day I awoke
The aluminium bird had already left
My father’s radio set
Leaving a new tear
On my forty old garments.