He speaks in a strange voice today, as though the winds whipped small leafy dervishes across the sleety mulch, and all the dust of the Great Hungarian Plains had lodged themselves across his vocal chords. “Keep it safe, for winter”, they seem to say. “Store them in the hollow of the Soviet brutal trees, and wait until the new wall falls”.
He speaks in a strange voice today. The events of last night still ring painfully in his ears, and send little shocks of something like ecstasy into the hollow of his stomach, already stretched again from abstinance. There is something that looks like sadness, peering it’s head around the entrance to the kitchen. A single sheet of paper is pushed under the door.
He reads it aloud. He speaks in a strange voice, today.
“Under cherry trees, pushed in earth
My lips are black with peat, eyes
Flicker-crack as soil folds
Its way beneath my nails.
You stand above, spading,
Shovel hiked over your ankles
Patting down the quagmire
A mile above my head.
The twisting of the strata
Pushes bone through rock
And lets out little strips of self
Far beyond the other side
You swing your tools behind your ears
And march off, gladly, home. Your
Legs freshly shaven
And smeared with metal ores, forgot.”