Another boy’s story
When I ran off to pilfer fruits from orchards,
the wind pushed me, blared at my back, I was escorted by
the solidified stares of dogs standing behind picket fences.
A starling struck by a stone flew vertically into the trefoil,
into bird cherry shrubs. The bark stained my hands, the trees dropped litter,
a gust of wind set the branches swaying and I was scared to come down.
I am just a part of this story. Here I sit in the grass, spitting out the pips.
My name is Henio Błaszczyk, I’m nine years old.
Tomorrow I’m going home. For now I’m watching the birds as they
depopulate, then crowd an ancient cherry tree.
© translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones