This is a poem that I translated myself
into English, so it's not a definite version, I'm afraid.
It's on a radio, and it needs some little explanations.
I mentioned here two names that are
names of ex-party secretaries in my country, Mr. Bierut and Mr.
Gomulka.
And also, a name of French philosopher
whom you surely know, Bergson.
"Electric Elegy."
Farewell, German radio with the green eye.
You, heavy box, which almost consisted of body and soul.
Your lamps were glowing with a pink salmon light,
like the deep self in Bergson's philosophy.
Through the thick, thick textile covering the speaker,
my ear stuck to you as if to the lattice of the confessional.
Mussolini whispered once.
Hitler was shouting.
Stalin explained something calmly.
Bierut was hissing.
Gomulka held his unending speeches.
But nobody will accuse you of treason, radio.
No, your only sin was the absolute obedience,
tender faithfulness to the megahertz.
Whoever came was welcomed, whoever sent received.
Of course, I know that only Schubert songs brought you
the jade of happiness.
Chopin's waltzes made your electric heart throbbed
delicately and strongly, and the fabric over the speaker
was pulsating like the breasts of enamored girls
in old novels.
Not with the news, especially when
sent by Free Europe or the BBC.
Then your eye became nervous, the green pupil grew wide
and shrank back, as though under the influence
of changing doses of atropine.
Mad seagulls were living inside you and Macbeth.
In the night time, forlorn signals
found shelter in your rooms, sailors asked for help,
the young comet, who had lost her head, wept.
Your old age was announced by a cracked voice,
then bangs, coughing, and finally the blindness.
Your eye died down in deep silence.
Sleep peacefully, German radio.
Dream about Schumann, and do not wake up
when the next dictator-rooster crows.