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In a Mirror 1-4

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 7/1/2019


Like a day dying
in the twilight hour, 
without hurry you are saying goodbye to the fields
along the beaten path heading for your domain to play the never-ending game
you hang next dusty day of your life
with your gnarled hand
on the nail behind the door
overpowering smell of sweaty footrags 
and of kilometers traveled. 


Each spring in front of your house you sit
To occupy the widowed bench 
Talking to yourself for quite a bit
On the bumps of your distorted joints
You say still longer rosaries
And with past memories you quench
The present… listening to the rattles
And prattles - kids' rooms folks prepare.
Oh, hello John, what news is there? 
"As usual, there's nothing new."
But in your eyes with habits deep
A cat in doorstep lies asleep, 
A hawk above the yard stands still
And watches now the pigeons scared
Behind the fence rope-tied with skill 
A buzzard hovers over bushes, 
A woodlark sends warm melody
Upon the wholemeal winter crop
Your joy thus, John, may never stop.


God bless you, John - where are you going? 

But into the fields
where barley is almost ripe
and where the ears, heavy with grain, 
hung faded bristled mustache laden with dowry
but that's okay...


Autumnal sun's rays 
on your furrowed face are writing 
history into the zodiacal signs 
on the map of life
into the paths of intimacy - of the weight 
of decades weighed on Libra, it is seven, 
including your heart made of pure gold, steel muscles
and alpaca skin.

Over the potato field
chirping farewell birds
are closing the gates, when in the ashes
you bake potatoes and into your calloused hands you take sun 
in sunset's deep bow.


Good morning, John - how are things going? 

Thank God, 
I'm in good health and
in a healthy body - healthy spirit...


Fields of dying stars are already shining for you
like stalks cut in an oat field

in an oat field reaped just after dawn
fields of dying oats frail as life

the lark is carrying trills in its beak up to heaven
which he will lay down for you on the altar on Sunday

on the altar on Sunday joyful mornings
he carries trills - of a mourning bundle

A winged horse is pulling a car of fragrant 
thuja saplings to your thatched cottage,

of fragrant thuja saplings to your thatched cottage 
where maids with rose flowers in their golden hair 
bear witness that your burial was sumptuous.

Wieslaw Musialowski

*Translated by Jarek Zawadzki

Copyright © Wieslaw Musialowski