zofia beszczyńska

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*

I am reading
I struggle through the thicket of consonants
and diacritic marks
through teeth through rocks
Muslim tombstones; crosses Latin
and orthodox; thistles
skinning over bristle ground; sometimes
I meet a word soft and juicy
trawa, usta* calling me like unexpectedly
found acquaintance
then a crowd again: a clang
of machine guns; hurrying
people and suddenly a tune: a trembling voice
a song jagged like a lace
of leaves on a tree
till it becomes dark; the words
fade slowly; an echo lasts: a rustle
of silk tearing into shreds by night; a tapping
of nails against the nails; the silent planes
passing over the town

* a grass, a mouth

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