Wojciech F. Zlomek - Constant Times of Day - Evening II - In November


It could not have been different
because for some time
wind from the English Channel
dangerously swirled the steppe clouds.
And it all gathered over the murdered city.
Storm was hanging inevitable and coded
predictions for the city carried by couriers
from different parts of the world
were not good.

It could not have been different
because birch trees too again grew and spread
for a good supply of crosses.
Streets did not want to echo any more
the hobnailed boots and the last children
forgot to play.

           The earth
           was ready
           to receive blood.
Only death didn't know that it would
often regret its role but in those
times death knew less
than its victims.

It could not have been different.
Poets knew already the words of the poems
they would soon write.
Rats had a foretaste of the bitter feast.
... The city became clean
from roofs to the bowels of the sewers.
It waited for its heroes
and its dying.

           The city

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