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Sliding down our frozen hill

on sacks stuffed full of hay,

we swallow clumps of air, pieces

of sky, slaloming border posts.

I empty my moon-boots of icy shards,

my soaked gloves stiffening,

and again run up the mound as if entranced,

hoping all of half-term will be like this.

My Mont Blanc is melting with all this friction.

The sun fading faster than adrenaline

from our flaming cheeks.

Torches come peering through bushes.

Someone shouts: - Go home! - so we go.

Eyes freezing over like tiny planets.

Half-Term

Marek Kazmierski, translation from
the Polish written by

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