Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 7/20/2018

And the sun seems to disappear in the west
in beeches crowns, it sinks in green
and the night like a king sits upon the throne
and it shimmers in moonlight.

And nothing has changed - ages are passing:
the moon has not grown, the sun has not diminished,
hunter and hare do not count the stumbles,
no beginning will ever meet the end.

The crows are cawing though I do not know what
- allegedly they carry foretaste of winter
and it so happens that my eyes water,
because time turns winter's birthday

into the autumn's funeral. The last travelers
will sit for a moment as before the journey
the strangers sat with the household members
like a daisy with the most beautiful rose.

And so is the Earth that there is enough space for everyone,
enough water and air, fire and ash:
for the rich, the beggars, for those experienced by fate
- without favoring - it will host everyone.

Wieslaw Musialowski 6/14/2008

each scrawling night,
i stumble to my cave.
moss walls dripping—
the ocean kissing the lip.

i scratch my voice
into the bare rock,
with the sunlight trickling
in with the tide.

i poke my head out
when the night seeps
over the horizon...
i watch the cave flood.

when the tender stems
of light reach out,
they slide beneath my door
and pull me through—

and as the tendrils
dance in their own silhouette,
they tell my story
written in flame.

one with the rust,
trickling into the soils--
one more sip i just
gotta watch the smoke coil...

just let me inside please
all i want is to see
your china cabinet of my memories

im bigger than i was before
none of you can hurt me
anymore