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