A fox, when it goes out for a walk,
can get tangled in the vines,
or simply — it can be hit by a car.
Then it will lie there like a fire
until it turns gray.
After that — worms will eat it.
And the fox does not return from its walk.
It does not breathe and does not blink.
It is not alive!
And people, on Sunday, go to church.
On Sunday — clean towels and clean water.
The birds and the wind are silent.
Everyone speaks quietly.
I take myself by the hand for a walk —
first, people peacefully go to church,
then empty streets and green hills.
I lead myself by the hand and say:
everything here has ripened —
sheeps and people
in peace and silence,
especially people on Sunday -
They want so much to achieve a German kind of purity
that they agree to be silent.
And I walk toward the horizon, because there
is the source of forests,
and a sea of the dead, and the Carpathians,
and mountains of murdered children.
Somewhere there will surely be a warm place
where I can redeem my fox soul
over a cup of tea,
beneath a tree burning endlessly,
ask an angel to pull my body home —
to the simple blackberry bush,
where a leaf trembles without wind,
perhaps wanting to tell me something
for the last time.