In the Hotel

What is more frightening than a door,

Sealed, with a rug over it?

What lies behind? The Angel Mary,

Or a traitor with a hatchet?

Even when talking, it is not possible

To tear your troubled gaze away

From that intricate pattern-if you look

Hard, you might see something.

How can the simple hotel guest

Fail to be puzzled by

The chaotic muddle of

Tower, turret, parapet.

Everything here encourages

Distrust-I draw the rug aside-

The draught that flows from the door

Suggests a long, long passage behind.

There is no chink in it, no knob.

A slight breeze comes from underneath.

Kafka has taught us all about

Such things-we know it by heart.

If it were somewhere in far off Germany,

Or far off Prague-then what the hell!

But behind a Soviet door,

And in a Soviet hotel!

I back off, narrow my eyes.

I do not open the door.

After all, I have been raised

In a different literature.