Our fear

does not wear a night shirt

does not have owl’s eyes

does not lift a casket lid

does not extinguish a candle

does not have a dead man’s face either

our fear

is a scrap of paper

found in a pocket

“warn Wójcik

the place on Dluga Street is hot”

our fear

does not rise on the wings of the tempest

does not sit on a church tower

it is down-to-earth

it has the shape

of a bundle made in haste

with warm clothing

provisions

and arms

our fear

does not have the face of a dead man

the dead are gentle to us

we carry them on our shoulders

sleep under the same blanket

close their eyes

adjust their lips

pick a dry spot

and bury them

not too deep

not too shallow