IN THE PROVINCES 3 Poem by Durs Grünbein

(Bohemia)


The stillness around the dead mole
By the side of a wheatfield is deceptive.
Under it, there is a massing of black-clad
Beetle infantry, above, a hawk wheels
Before turning away with ruffled wings.
Ants, a detachment of sappers, are digging
A trench along the spine. Inside, the wires are hot
With nervous maggots' seething on the intestines'
Dealing floor. From the stomach lining, kerbstone traders
(or are they reporters) broadcast the news
To all quarters: Carrion! Carrion!
Only a grasshopper, a skip and a jump away,
Scans the clouds' script and silently suns itself,
One of the Stoic philosophers.