I’ve got the whole room hung with Marcins.
At least once a week I hang up another Marcin.
The dust from the gallows is almost as thick
as a fog of cigarette smoke.

This one—because he didn’t want to. That one—
because he didn’t know how. That one—claimed
he was tired. And that other—he had no faith.
They turn in time to the argument next door

and mean nothing. The most important, my most recent
Marcin, hangs from the lamp. I always look up
to make faces in his direction, thinking
how soon he’ll rot—it is to his shame that he

waits, though he doesn’t know how to wait, he
waits like a child for the Christmas star, he waits for a woman
who’s on her way, she must be, it will all happen
just as usual, as usual, and with some of the usual

little surprises, too. Marcin hangs, he rots, he turns.
It’s evening. With violence rises an electric sun.
I have lived longer than all the young dead poets.
I have lived longer than all the young dead poets.

—translated from Polish by W. Martin

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