The almighty cyclop’s-eye clouded over <br />and the grass shook itself in the coal dust. <br /> <br />Beaten black and blue by the night’s dreams <br />we board the train <br />that stops at every station <br />and lays eggs. <br /> <br />Almost silent. <br />The clang of the church bells’ buckets <br />fetching water. <br />And someone’s inexorable cough <br />scolding everything and everyone. <br /> <br />A stone idol moves its lips: <br />it’s the city. <br />Ruled by iron-hard misunderstandings <br />among kiosk attendants butchers <br />metal-workers naval officers <br />iron-hard misunderstandings, academics! <br /> <br />How sore my eyes are! <br />They’ve been reading by the faint glimmer of the glow-worm lamps. <br /> <br />November offers caramels of granite. <br />Unpredictable! <br />Like world history <br />laughing at the wrong place. <br /> <br />But we hear the clang <br />of the church bells’ buckets fetching water <br />every Wednesday <br />- is it Wednesday? - <br />so much for our Sundays! <br /> <br />translated by Robin Fulton <br />'New and Collected Poems', 1997, Bloodaxe Books.<br /><br />Tomas Tranströmer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/november-in-the-former-ddr/
