Pop-up park: there were discounts on flowers,
planted with metal combines, planted with
a Lenin of petunias, with a Stalin of pansies,
a Khrushchev of chrysanthemums - all of you burst again into bloom
in the consciousness, speak languages of blossoms and blood,
languages of power.

Tubs full of bones lie buried beneath the grass.
Burst into bloom and speak tongues! Who rakes here? Who plants?
And who mows? Concrete flowers are freshly painted
in May, the prefab buildings refurbished, the edges
and boxes chalked; for the city is said to be the
mother of gardens.

Speak, park, just speak, so that I can see you.
Talk about the relics, reliquaries, talk about your rocket
trips into the beyond, about war memorials surrounded
by red tulips, by victories and sighs and by a present
with a spring flowing through it. Here those are strolling
who shall be dead hereafter.

Translation Catherine Hales