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Poetry

Calypso

By Adam Wiedemann
Translated from Polish by W. Martin

The sea’s color is green.
The white sand is stained with blood.
An old woman dies at the diner, underfed,
under prepared. The telephone only takes phone cards.

Some people are hard to recognize, even
on the street. Already April, and here, imagine it,
snow. Contradictions, contradictions. Eh,
it’s better late than at all, better at all.

So we can’t live more now? Even when we’re by ourselves
we invoke metaphors of the heart.
Imagine a situation where it never occurs to you
to think of any other situation.

 

English

The sea’s color is green.
The white sand is stained with blood.
An old woman dies at the diner, underfed,
under prepared. The telephone only takes phone cards.

Some people are hard to recognize, even
on the street. Already April, and here, imagine it,
snow. Contradictions, contradictions. Eh,
it’s better late than at all, better at all.

So we can’t live more now? Even when we’re by ourselves
we invoke metaphors of the heart.
Imagine a situation where it never occurs to you
to think of any other situation.

 

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