To Maria Dąbrowska
In the attic sleeps my return:
a trunk bound with metal, suitcases,
my whole homeland,
passports, citizenships
and emigration visas.
A trunk, my vast estate,
which I must here protect—
misfortune’s normal start
and crazy end.
A trunk of old, rancid children
ready to become ever more dumb and childish;
and, among oddments fit for naught,
wild loneliness, nostalgia’s bitter bile—
the most despairing junk.
A dog’s whine after my Carpathian soil,
a spasm shameful to admit;
as moving follows moving:
from America to Europe,
from Europe to America,
trunk on my back
and worn-out soles—
my fatherland.
Such is the baggage. Such is the voyage,
such is my travel plan:
the whole globe open,
but with no way out.
Such is the trap. Nothing to take from here
nor bear unto the end.
My attic and return,
my loss and love,
which I can neither kill
nor yet defend.
—translated from the Polish by Jakob Ziguras