The Trial

During his great speech the prosecutor

kept piercing me with his yellow index finger

I'm afraid I didn't appear self-assured  

unintentionally I put on a mask of fear and depravity  

like a rat caught in a trap an informer a fratricide  

the reporters were dancing a war dance  

slowly I burned at a stake of magnesia

all of this took place in a small stifling room

the floor creaked plaster fell from the ceiling

I counted knots in the boards holes in the wall faces  

the faces were alike almost identical  

policemen the tribunal witnesses the audience  

they belonged to the party of those without any pity  

and even my defender smiling pleasantly  

was an honorary member of the firing squad

in the first row sat an old fat woman

dressed up as my mother with a theatrical gesture she raised

a handkerchief to her dirty eyes but didn't cry

it must have lasted a long time I don't know even how long  

the red blood of the sunset was rising in the gowns of the judges

the real trial went on in my cells

they certainly knew the verdict earlier

after a short rebellion they capitulated and started to die one after the other

I looked in amazement at my wax fingers

I didn't speak the last word and yet

for so many years I was composing the final speech  

to God to the court of the world to the conscience  

to the dead rather than the living  

roused to my feet by the guards

I managed only to blink and then

the room burst out in healthy laughter

my adoptive mother laughed also

the gavel banged and this really was the end

but what happened after that – death by a noose

or perhaps a punishment generously chained to a dungeon

I’m afraid there is a third dark solution

beyond the limits of time the senses and reason

therefore when I wake I don't open my eyes  

I clench my fingers don't lift my head  

breathe lightly because truly I don't know  

how many minutes of air I still have left