Fall of Troy. Miroslav Holub


From burning Troy we took away
these rags of ours,
teeth in a glass
and a tattooed grandpa.

A bit further on the ancient quail
were nesting again
and silver pike were milting
in the quiet sky.

Nailed to the ground by a lance
a soldier
flapped a hand at us.
The wormwood spoke no word
nor did the gentian.

Just like home, said grandpa.

The bleating of lambs
arched a roof
over our heads.
The land flowed with manna.
From the time of the primary rocks
nothing had happened in fact.

And like a fingernail
grown into the flesh
our truth
was always with us.

We slept embraced,
rags wrapped about us,
teeth in a glass.
Just like home, said grandpa.

Nothing had happened in fact.
Only we understood
that Troy
perhaps
had really
fallen.