niedziela, 1 kwietnia 2012

The Meadow - Maria Kryńska-Szostak

Sometimes it would behoove a man
to have a day free from life.

(Saint Augustine)



The Meadow


So I am lying, Augustine, spread – horizontal,
The smell of the meadow is pulsating in the nostrils like a song.
Here I was born – It’s organic closeness
To the grass, the growth, the decay, the chain of change.

The sky is watching me idly - it is a pretense.
Think: behind that cloud the energy of the cosmos
Is moving a great millwheel; to waste,
To death. Look how all of a sudden are emerging

And devouring us enormous jaws of air
And from the recesses of the brain a fright is flooding in
With the sword of rebellion set in the hand.
How can I rest here, Saint Augustine?

Maria Kryńska-Szostak


tłumaczenie: Iwona Cymerman

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