Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 7/16/2018

The sun bows low,
putting out the candlesticks of time,
it decorates white altars,
therefore winter is already close.

Wieslaw Musialowski 15/10/2001

I watch the moths bounce off,
And imagine every attempt
I’ve ever made to love.
I feel the night like they do,

I feel the flight like they do, futile,
And remaining drawn to the flames;
If only to pray upon altars ash.
And when the goddess leans

To burn once more,
When the mosquito licks my arm;
I scratch and scratch and scratch
To bleed;

I hope the one next to me,
I hope she slices when I sleep,
I hope she plants flowers,
I hope she was jubilant,

And if only for those few hours.