On the manor house clad in scaffolding,
a flag is waving like a rag.
A national flag. Torn and shabby,
it doesn't care which nation it belongs to.
The fabric, worn by wind and rain,
the threads, sickly. It doesn't want
its tired molecules to represent anyone.
I stand under it on the asphalt
and say: 'Come into my cave!
Come away, into my cave, matter! '
The Nike running shoes on a happy daughter: slave work
has given birth to pink, despised polyurethane.
Paper in the cupboards of anxious academics and clerks:
their life's beautiful, pale and silent victim.
The warm shiny metal of the jeep that killed a pedestrian.
The watercolour-like photo of the weak member of parliament.
The flag is waving. Come, fabric, colour, and texture!
Come, graphic form of the letter!
Come, let's hug each other and sleep!
Come hide yourself in my cave, matter!

Translated by the author and Mike Horwood