Humans are not in the majority in the space
in which this artists lives.
You hike up to it,
from this Baltic town’s center,
and are led to believe it’s the same
as all other flats on the block.
In it, books claim the main presence,
taking you from A through Z and back again,
in languages more than three;
many stand in rows of twos
with more on top or underneath.
Frames of pictures and photos,
oil canvases and old newspaper clippings,
the pope‘s portrait and other relics,
tiny stickers such as the ‘invisible’ reminder
on the door out of the bathroom
paper the remaining space on walls.
We count a fish in a bowl,
two dogs, a turtle, and some flies,
to Breschnev’s cement,
in addition to the kid’s toys and dolls.
Dried tea-leaves and a rose,
fresh chanterelles and beans,
French wines and dessert cakes
invite to sit or stand in the kitchen, tiny.
Outside, a prayer stool and an empty
jam jar filled with sand and cigarette studs
hint at the fact that something cannot get out
of this flat by itself and needs these gray wings to fly.
It’s the studio for a revolution,
so get out your brush
or whatever else you are fighting with.