Now a short poem, "Poems on Poland."
I read poems on Poland written by foreign poets.
German and Russians not only have guns but also ink, pens,
some heart, and a lot of imagination.
Poland and their poems reminds me
of an audacious unicorn which feeds
on the wall of tapestries.
It is beautiful, weak, and imprudent.
I don't know what the mechanism of illusion is based on,
but even I, a sober reader, am enraptured
by that fairy tale defenseless land on which
feed blood eagles, hungry emperors, the Third
Reich, and the third wrong.