Four-and-a-half tons of Silesian coal –
a whole day to shovel it into the cellar,
a whole winter to burn it. I’m happy to have it,
and – as always – I regret a little
that I must burn something so wonderful
without having time to study it, to open layer by layer
the book that has been buried and hidden for so long.
I understand almost nothing of these
single lumps that bear distinct
traces of leaves or bark from ancient trees.
Always a book, a black book in a foreign language
from which I understand only some single words:
Cordaites, Bennetites, Sigillaria, Sigillaria…
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