The killing of rabbits (English)

On Sunday after breakfast,

when the air is about halfway to ice,

the thin flutes of the mice are whistling in the chimney,

on Sunday after breakfast

to walk over fresh snow

to the cages.



Pull off the gloves for the rose feast.

Impale them on the fence

like freshly severed palms

and smoke through the door.

And then insert the hungry hand

and with smoke in your teeth utter sweet words,

caressing and gentle,

a touch of pity,

then a firm grab of the skin,

lifting it from the warm straw.



On Sunday after breakfast

sniff the ammonia.



For a while hold it head downwards,

watch the ears turning dark red,

gently stroke its back,

exhale, carry it off

and abruptly strike the back of its neck with the right hand.



Once more in your palm feel the effort

of a now useless leap,

feel a weight in your hand,

sweet taste on your palate,

hear the rabbits' heaven open

and fistfuls of fur falling from it.



Vinnese blue,

Flemish giant,

French lop-eared,

Czech piebald,

and even the bastards of no matter what blood,

they all die equally swiftly

and soundlessly,



On Monday with blue under your eyes keep silent,

on Tuesday reflect on the fate of the world,

on Wednesday and Thursday

bring out the steam engine

and discover the stars,

on Friday think of others,

and especially of blue eyes,

all week long feel sorry for orphans

and admire flowers,

on Saturday step pink from your bath

and fall asleep on her lips.



On Sunday after breakfast

kill a rabbit.