But these are graves, a child mutters;
don’t talk like that about the high hills;
we’re lifting a ladder to a lofty
pear tree; an apple protects itself
from frost with cerumen;

but this a cemetery, look,
dad, at the clouds, a skeleton
is chasing a skeleton; and a headless
rider; high hills (through hornbeams)
hardly hard;

steam engines have disappeared
in the fields up the axis, up the rust.
Behind you the voice from the Stations
of the Cross; a priest is holding
a microphone; but this is a town

that comes from down below.

tłumaczenie: Natalia Kossakowska