Polenreise/Poland Trip übersetzt von Wiebke Acton
Poland Trip
Sitting there drawing with my charcoal pen
the sun-drenched blue Wroclaw spire
which lingers in my memory from far away
sketching gargoyles
gigantic heads of cunning ugliness
I thought
I was freed
from all vices
and the memories of weeks gone by, from all the sorrow.
Sitting in Krakow on the warm stone of the eroded wall
a shiver of fear took all
of my body
and question upon question: Where do I belong?
Images creeping in, relentlessly
like misty shrouds of bygone times.
And I had to bolt the doors of the gigantic hostels.
The constant roaring of males in corridors,
this is no place for girls so young,
asking where they belong
with their loneliness.
In Szczecin through lonely alleys I strolled, drugged with sleep,
befogged at night, drawn by my own turmoil
– this was a country of lived suffering
and trampled stories.
You ground me down, too.
Me too.
“We trace our past”
searching voices emerged over and over.
And I?
I travelled
week upon week
in the discord of my personal illness
from too much love.
Am I allowed to travel here
chasing these questions
when history hovers over these bloodied streets?
I travel.
I pack my bag once again
and lodge myself
in the cheapest hostel
the most budget night.
Rusty metal bunk beds in dorm rooms,
sagging mattresses
and the secret whimpers of love-making,
the noisy snoring soaring from a chorus of male throats.
I rack myself to my own oozing scum.
No dough in my pocket
No warm meal on the table
My passport, my rucksack
I’ll smack
you in the face, you vermin,
you deserve it.
You have nothing more.
Sitting there
in the shadow of a country’s pain
I yearned to return
to Berlin
home
to him.
(im Rahmen der Residenz -Heimat- an der Kulturfabrik Esch)
