Napisz to. Napisz. Zwyklym atramentem na zwyklym papierze: nie dano im jesc, wszyscy pomarli z glodu. Wszyscy. Ilu?

Write this down. Write it. With regular ink on regular paper: they were given nothing to eat, everyone died of hunger. Everyone. How many?

To duza laka. Ile trawy przypadlo na jednego? Napisz: nie wiem. Historia zaokragla szkielety do zera.Tysiac i jeden to wciaz jeszcze tysiac. Ten jeden, jakby go wcale nie bylo: plod urojony, kolyska prozna, elementarz otwarty dla nikogo, powietrze, ktore smieje sie, krzyczy i rosnie, schody dla pustki zbiegajacej do ogrodu, miejsce niczyje w szeregu.

That’s a large meadow. How much grass was for each? Write: I don’t know. History rounded the number of skeletons. 1,001 is still 1,000. That one is as if he completely never existed: an imaginary seed, an empty cradle, a primer opened for nobody, air which laughs, screams and grows, stairs for the void running to the garden, no particular place in line.

Jestesmy na tej lace, gdzie stalo sie cialem. A ona milczy jak kupiony swiadek. W sloncu. Zielona.

We’re in that meadow, where it became a body, which is as silent as a bought witness. In the sun. Green.

Tam opodal las do zucia drewna, do picia spod kory – porcja widoku calodzienna, poki sie nie oslepnie.

Over there, there’s a forest with wood for the chewing, and under the bark stuff to drink. A portion of a view for the whole day until you go blind.

W gorze ptak, ktory po ustach przesuwal sie cieniem pozywnych skrzydel. Otwieraly sie szczeki, uderzal zab o zab.

Up above, a bird, whose nourishing wings cast a shadow across their lips. Their jaws opened, tooth gnashed tooth.

Noca na niebie blyskal sierp i zal na snione chleby. Nadlatywaly rece z poczernialych ikon, z pustymi kielichami w palcach.

At night in the sky, the crescent moon shone and reaped the dreamt-of breads. Arms approached from blackened icons, with empty cups in their hands.

Na roznie kolczastego drutu chwial sie czlowiek. Spiewano z ziemia w ustach. Sliczna piesn o tym, ze wojna trafia prosto w serce.

On a spit made of barbed wire, a man spins. They sang with dirt in their mouths. A pretty song about how war strikes right at the heart.

Napisz, jaka tu cisza.
Tak.

Write how quiet it is.
Just like that.