O Mirek, Mirek, briar-brained wren,
why do you tumble again and again?
The dawn has sighed at your crooked stride,
she’s packed her bags for the other side.
You toast the dusk with nettle-tea,
and claim it tastes like “destiny.”
But nettles bite the tongue they kiss
and leave you humming into the abyss.
You court the maidens by sheer mishap,
you knock on one, but greet her pap.
You sought to serenade sweet Irena,
yet crooned instead to old Aunt Helena,
who tapped her cane in stern delight
and chased you howling through the night.
Last week you praised young fair Danica,
gifted her moss and a chipped harmonica,
but slipped and fell in the village well
and wooed your echo there as well.
The crows observe, the elders sneer,
yet still you skip with dubious cheer,
seeking a sweetheart in every puddle.
offering mud pies to prove you’re subtle.
They say the willows gossip your plight,
that even owls averzt at night
when you attempt a gallant pose,
your sleeves catch wind, your trousers rose.
But fret not, Mirek, luck’s a drake
that swims in every foolish lake,
and you, with lanterns half-extinguished,
still glow enough to keep them kindled.
O Mirek, Mirek, dusk-born sprout,
your heart a knot, your thoughts devout,
you braid misfortune into charms
and wear them proudly on your srms.
And if you trip near twilight’s seam,
pursuing some bewildered dream,
the moon will chuckle at your sway
and tuck your footprints far away.
And should you vanish one soft night,
slipping between the reed/(grass) from sight,
the village will shrug at break of day:
“He tripped on a star and wandered away.”
Dec 12, 2025
Dec 12, 2025 at 4:57 PM UTC
O Mirek, Mirek, briar-brained wren,
why do you tumble again and again?
The dawn has sighed at your crooked stride,
she’s packed her bags for the other side.
You toast the dusk with nettle-tea,
and claim it tastes like “destiny.”
But nettles bite the tongue they kiss
and leave you humming into the abyss.
You court the maidens by sheer mishap,
you knock on one, but greet her pap.
You sought to serenade sweet Irena,
yet crooned instead to old Aunt Helena,
who tapped her cane in stern delight
and chased you howling through the night.
Last week you praised young fair Danica,
gifted her moss and a chipped harmonica,
but slipped and fell in the village well
and wooed your echo there as well.
The crows observe, the elders sneer,
yet still you skip with dubious cheer,
seeking a sweetheart in every puddle.
offering mud pies to prove you’re subtle.
They say the willows gossip your plight,
that even owls averzt at night
when you attempt a gallant pose,
your sleeves catch wind, your trousers rose.
But fret not, Mirek, luck’s a drake
that swims in every foolish lake,
and you, with lanterns half-extinguished,
still glow enough to keep them kindled.
O Mirek, Mirek, dusk-born sprout,
your heart a knot, your thoughts devout,
you braid misfortune into charms
and wear them proudly on your srms.
And if you trip near twilight’s seam,
pursuing some bewildered dream,
the moon will chuckle at your sway
and tuck your footprints far away.
And should you vanish one soft night,
slipping between the reed/(grass) from sight,
the village will shrug at break of day:
“He tripped on a star and wandered away.”
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