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Magic

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 © Wieslaw Musialowski

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