Behind a stout apartment building
Lies an automobile graveyard.
Go there.
You’ll see a rusty car skeleton;
The edges are saffron and sharp,
And there’s motor oil on everything.
Since your about eight years old,
You probably shouldn’t touch it.
But do it anyway.
As your taking the burned car battery out,
Notice the hill
In the massive meadow across the street.
Take note of it.
Take note of the piebald pines that
Line the hill’s edge.
Take note of the waving hillocks that
Dominate the rest of the meadow.
Take note of the viridity,
The thunderheads,
The bold blue above,
And take note of the willows in the distance.
Now carry that car battery to the apartment building
And go upstairs.
It’s the door straight ahead.
Go through it.
Put the car battery on top of the dining table
And have your grandmother scream at you.
Tell her you are sorry
And take the battery back to the car.
While you stick the damn thing back in the
Car skeleton,
Look again at the massive meadow
And take note.
Now turn around.
Ten miles ahead lies Ponary,
Where one hundred thousand were
Murdered during the war.
But you won’t know that until twelve years later.
Take note.
–Aleksandr Smechov