Get Your Premium Membership


Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 3/10/2019 Because there is no such magic, colors and people for whom beauty is every day mixed in this dose, properly measured, to live until death: and we, though a bit older - we, highlanders, we go straight ahead to wake up in the morning and think how to rise above the mountains like a kite. And to look what has happened in the valleys during the night are the trees got gray, stitched together with misty thread, are switchbacks still so winding as in the past, is a painter like a sail on his ship, is this all maybe only a dream - memories with a rattle in a boat made of bark, which floats with tide. But everything is still in its place: stones, bridges, spans, road over the cliff, bus stop and church and wooden benches that look unchanged, but Time is covering them with sad cold, when those with a heavy baggage from their past sometimes stop to sit for a while to satisfy the hunger hidden deep in their hearts. Wieslaw Musialowski 18/1/2018

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.

Please Login to post a comment

A comment has not been posted for this poem. Encourage a poet by being the first to comment.