My vintage, sixty-three, that Poem by Lutz Seiler

endless sequence of children, screwed
into the echo vaults of hallways, hidden away
when walking, bent into

a stranger's coat, seven
full of wax with a heaviness
breathed in from floorboards, eight

with a heaviness
that rushed to one's head from urinals, we had
gagarin, but gagarin

also had us, in the mornings the same rustling
of sleeves following the writ
across the desks & at noon
the percussion of spoons, we had

table duty, milk duty, the pressure
of an empty-headed teacher in our eyes jelly
in our ears until
she fell silent
the heavy-handed teacher fell silent
in our caps
those were the pains

when urinating, in the barrier woodland
when speaking, we had
quotations: that we set against the dark side of the planet
at least a bright one
first all together & then
everyone quietly
by themselves, we were

not lucky. so the houses decay
at last we become
small again &
ride back to the villages built of wood, of
straw from where we came, cracked & thin
with an echo whetted

by the wind: we greet gagarin, we
were not lucky, departure, back
to our villages
& departure of the villages
across the fields by night…

Translated by Hans-Christian Oeser & Gabriel Rosenstock