Something Might Have Happened
Around the ninth of July
I was no longer able to tell what’s real.
I told them that I didn’t know what had happened.
Something might have happened but I don’t remember.
And what I do remember is blurred.
Fragments of rather common things:
A rope, muddy water, tangled time.
When they pushed the wardrobe aside,
A door appeared:
It did not close properly, made of metal, warped at the bottom.
When they took off my handcuffs,
I realized,
That the pictures stuck to the bottom of the drawer
Have not been left there by me. The handwriting was not mine.
Amateur footage, a diary
My own memories too
Could have been faked.
When I turned around,
Men in uniforms were no longer there
In the dark room she was standing
Looking at me through my eyes.
Have I done anything wrong?
Have they done anything wrong to me?
At the end of the corridor
There it was, hanging low
Seven times a mirror.
Translated into English by Bára Rozkošná.