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To look for love
Where there
Is no love -
To understand the mystery
Of the absurd world -
To put on another mask
In the time of the plague -
To put it aside for sometime:
Meeting with loved ones -

25/12/2020
Translation.
I suffered with You, Belarus, my beloved,
When a police baton *****
You at the police station,
In full drill.

I was there when they fired at You,
When they killed the helpless
On the street without mercy,
In envy, in anger.

I was when they beat with a baton,
When they hit the eyes with a baton
In the police torture
Or in the yard by the wall.

I was when they beat uncontrollably,
When the lying, despite wanting to
Prove his innocence,
Got the fifth stick in the bone.

I was when they took off the woman’s
******* and were pushing a baton there,
And in the man’s ****
It was being inserted - until the whine.

I was when they beat one in the forest,
The spirit still carries me there,
I saw hundreds lying in the alps,
I saw the dead in the halls.

Hospitals ...

It was the baton of Łuka,
Which *****,
Which killed,
Which beat,
Which knocked out teeth,
Which bruised,
It was the baton of Łuka.

The bullets were Łuka’s,
The hands were Łuka’s,
I give the large double doors back to Łuka:
Let you be rotten in a bad way.

The baton was Łuka’s.
It was the baton of Łuka.
The baton was Łuka’s.
It was the baton of Łuka.

You wronged a simple man,
And the walls will collapse anyway,
It's not balderdash,
Oh, you ignoramuses,
Oh, you ... stupid.

Oh you the bows! ...
Oh, you, Łuka (the Bow)!
Translation.
How can animal rights be defended,
not defending the rights of the unborn children...
How can the rights of the unborn children be defended,
not defending the poor or the hungry children...
Oh, the right, oh, the left...
Conservative jerks will call me names like a "leftist",
And on the leftist side, they will accuse me of being a rightist.
I am not a prophet in my country.

1.2.2021
Translation.
There is no poetry,
There is only a life,
It looks like your dream
Is coming true,
But there comes the question:
Why?

There is no sense,
No meaning, no harmony,
And black ants fly,
But you are not able to ask:
Why?

Two people write each other.
One asks softly: "Do you have
Any time for your hobbies?"
The answer: "Yes, I have a life".
But immediately, this question
comes:
Why?

Why do you have your life?
And: why-why are you rife?
Any strife?

Sleepy bride.
Any guide?
Life's slide.

Bye.
(Sigh.)
There aren't many people in Saint Mark's Square,

There is the Way of the Cross, the memory of the Death...

And yet someone has come here and he is not bored,

He is here, he is praying and he is not fidgeting...



There is an image of the plague in Saint Mark's Square,

There are masks on the faces, there are social distances,

There are, like distant mountains, human expressions,

There are various cognitive dissonances...



There is no shortage of faith in Saint Mark's Square,

There is no empty ideology of Evil...

Sometimes someone thinks it's magic, witchcraft

And this is only the glory of the Risen One!...



Today He is laid in the tomb ... today Joseph of Arimathea,

The hidden disciple, took His body away,

He buried it in tradition, maybe in hope.

May Jewish customs be satisfied...



And yesterday behind Cedron in Gethsemane,

Yesterday in prayer, in waiting...

Jesus was caught like a common criminal,

With the Judas conspiracy...



Soon, so much will change,

Our fatigue, our torment, that's life...

The eternal world stands before you like an offering,

And in Saint Mark's Square there is a deeper being.



And there's the Satan howl somewhere, too.



And there is also hope somewhere.

And there is also a culpa somewhere... mea...

And there is also hope somewhere.





From 2. to 3.4.2021, Joe., After the Way of the Cross from the Vatican.

— The End —