It's noon, you're sitting behind the wheel
in an empty country road, a couple of Polish stations
are cutting in and out, nothing speaks in you, you're on the point
of thinking you grew up mute, and then this: rape,

hard edge, clean line, scattered, dense rape work,
hatched and cross-hatched rape, the field fills, the screen fills with rape,
rape up to your hairline, brimful of rape,

rape eyes, rape head, rape rustle, rape scrape, nothing cattle cake,
nothing margerine, nothing but rape.

Translation: Michael Hofmann