I will not be able to explain why
the White Nights of the Solstice are no whiter
than the sleeve of my nightshirt, brought into prison
by Constitutional Articles 70 and 72.
I will not be able to explain to myself the price
my brain cells pay for a night’s sleep
on a board and under lock and key,
every hour embarking on escape.
I will not even try to explain anything that comes from within
or what would be simpler, from without.
Nor will I remove my shirt and be crucified by the toss of a coin,
my naked back against a cement wall.
Translated by Elizabeth Krizenesky