Polish ploughlands are like a grave. Yet the fog that enfolds them like a protective foil does with an unripened preserve simply won’t dissipate and mark the burial place for me. In the coldest winter nights I huddle into a wain full of tubers. Potatoes or beetroots, it depends on how much past I can survive that night.

© translated by Serena Todesco and Silvestar Vrljić

Poljske oranice su kao grob. Ali magla koja ih omata kao zaštitna folija nedozrelu zimnicu nikako da se razmakne i označi mi mjesto pokopa. U najhladnijim jesenskim noćima uvlačim se u kola puna gomolja. Krumpira ili cikle, ovisno o tome koliko prošlosti mogu preživjeti tu noć.

© Ivan Šamija