Continued. Piotr Sommer

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       Amnesia

      I forget about the other world.

      I wake up with my mouth closed,

      I wash the fruit with my mouth closed,

      smiling, I bring the fruit into the room.

      I don’t know why I remember cod-liver oil,

      whole years of misery, the cellar bolt on the floor,

      the self-sufficient voice of the grandmother.

      Still, this is not the other world.

      And again I sit at the table with my mouth closed

      and you bring me delicious bursting plums

      and I repeat after someone I also forget:

      there is no other world.