CONTRABAND

In a broken seat, ripped out of a truck,

looking at clouds overhead

since early morning

sits the young god of European contraband

wrapped in a down jacket

listening to a gypsy melody playing on a stolen cell phone.

My countrymen, winter has come to our land

and oil shines in cellars, fish fall asleep in reservoirs,

churches and train stations are heated only by long conversations—

there is always more warmth in winter voices than content.

Tear the tanned leather of shearlings and bomber jackets;

as long as we know every saint

on our border by name,

countrymen, our sons can’t be hurt by knives or bullets

or carried off by the current or blown away by the north wind.

Snow in the mountain pass

the bitches at customs

will take your weapons

will take your drugs

you will stand like a ghost in the fog, gold scattered about,

where now, lord, where are your Carpathians?

Who should I spend the night with in these fields without snow?

How can I cross to the other side, how can I stand

my fury which filled me when you abandoned me;

pull me out, lord, from this shit,

if you can see me in this fog.

Wandering sun, roll through our quiet days,

come, my joy, warm yourself with wine and fires.

While you suffer, winter is passing,

there’s only our heat—nothing else,

between you and me—only a river

filled with fish and water.

Translated by Virlana Tkacz and Wanda Phipps