Those paths I brushed
With the feet of a child - where have they gone ?
They roll down as tears do, hushed,
Out of the eyes, down, down.

The freshness of morning would wake me up.
The sun would be painting a masterpiece.
A golden coast - a golden pup,
A golden guitar - a golden precipice.

Stare. Stare sufficiently into the light
From the midst of a great silence, and in a while
You are bound to see a camel shining bright,
A bright-eyed robber with a glistening smile.

At breakfast the table became a desert. I stared
Till I rode the camel and I saw the gleaming thief.
Father, assured of his safety, never despaired
But read his paper calmly, rustling a leaf.

A triple rainbow embroidered the carafe,
The tablecloth, the cupboard, father's moustache.
A wasp, entangled in the lace curtains, would laugh
And the curtains laughed too, their threads in the sun, a bright patch.

And the rich floor, dreamily glittering, mirrored it all
The leaves of the palm shone brighter at the back
But melted shallowly, and a thin glaze would fall
As if someone had spilled greenery by mistake.

The arm-chair sipping its own velvet peace
Would grow heavier, comfortably, I think.
The sugar would plot for a blue spark's release
And the loaf of bread would turn pink.

The clock shakes free of its long compressed coils and booms
A prolonged note through the hall to the sky.
In that furnished day-dreaming among the sunny rooms
Everybody endures and does not die.

But something happened: something went wrong.
The same clock struck, but shyly, in another town.
The soul stumbled over the body that had grown too strong,
And they began to die, one by one.

Translated by Jerzy Peterkiewicz and Burns Singer
(Contributed by daniel on Friday, April 8th, 2011)
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Polish Literature

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