[This man ] Poem by Karol Chmel

This man still insists on hope,
drinks water from his palms, falls on grass,
he learns abc, counts on his fingers
again, smiles
in the sun, walks through rain
with his head uncovered, breathes
in tune with his sleeping son,
planted a tree, still insists on hope,
with his hand he touches birch bark, hot
skin of his wife, cup with tea,
black concert piano, on whose
polished wood a reflection
of the brooding face
of an unknown sniper can be seen.

Translation: Pavol Lukáč