The bottom of the cellar is paved
in the same way as the sky,
but in the cellar are born only
white and blind animals.

If, unconcerned, you insert a hand
into the very centre of the rotting remains
– you can feel a tiny little heart,
an eternally moving beginning.

A great noise up above. Upstairs
today holiday. And here – in the halfdark –
there is no holiday. Through the cellar window
you can see only hobnailed boots.
 

Marcin Swietlicki, Song from the Cellar