Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/7/2019
O scarecrow, dressed elegantly
- in worn-out shoes, ragged old hat,
on which black crow sits in dignity
and stares off into this distance where forest sad
- you certainly dream about traveling
into these wheat fields, grasses adorned with flowers
that you could lose your scarecrow's soul
running happily towards the horizon...
But you stand here, alas, forever lost in thoughts,
unable to understand where the restriction comes from,
with your straw heart always split
between both powerlessness and want.
Funny thing, my dear scarecrow - to have
so much on your own and not to.
Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/01/2008
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 7:39 PM UTC
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/7/2019
O scarecrow, dressed elegantly
- in worn-out shoes, ragged old hat,
on which black crow sits in dignity
and stares off into this distance where forest sad
- you certainly dream about traveling
into these wheat fields, grasses adorned with flowers
that you could lose your scarecrow's soul
running happily towards the horizon...
But you stand here, alas, forever lost in thoughts,
unable to understand where the restriction comes from,
with your straw heart always split
between both powerlessness and want.
Funny thing, my dear scarecrow - to have
so much on your own and not to.
Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/01/2008
Only poems that I've ever tried to write myself come from a time when I was 22 or 23 years old and there are only a few of them. Enjoy!