Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 7/13/2018

He stands firmly
on oak legs
moss-covered from knees
to the shoulders

He knows
that he must last

from the cliff to the cliff
handrails
like limbs patched

under feet
to the opposite bank

Wieslaw Musialowski 3/7/2003

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 8/25/2019

Over the ridge,
among endless green valleys,
that divides but also unites
- the sky has spread
with blue,
and since centuries lasting
with an image:
with prayer mine
and yours
to God not always
the same
- because mine they've clad
with an armor of delusions,
and yours they've dragged
dead
onto the stakes burning
with despair,
so that hot ruins
he'd resurrect.
But tears of hope
are continually being shed on
borders connecting
two gods.

Wieslaw Musialowski 10/9/2001

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 1/10/2019

Oh, how I miss the cornflowers and poppies,
lowlands, sands and dwarf pines,
rye bread and country girls
with the simplest of simple tastes.

I dream of such upbringing to later be able
to respect others without rejecting anyone,
and to always let them pull their cart of good fortune and misery,
being able to see not only our own right.

I'd like to believe that a neighbor always wishes you well,
that there's no between between the fields,
in order not to stain life with lies,
and that it is possible to never yell at anyone.

I miss the forest leaning in the wind,
the marigolds - children of wet meadows,
and those hard men who'd always stand up and fight
even without the chance of winning.

I miss shutters with a heart in the middle,
But most of all - white clouds.

Wieslaw Musialowski 12/4/2018

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

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 8/30/2019

Since centuries
he has been dressing
native land
in beautiful colors
- into the robes of rotation,
that all the seasons of the year
could come true:
from the harsh winter
to hot summer.

That early spring
could flash with autumn
among the white patches of snow:
with the color of winter crops
that shimmer in the sun
- with small patches
of the first green.

Separates with balk
barley from rye,
rapeseed field
from wheat fields.
To make it possible for the earth
to give birth to all kind of crops
- the stretch of arable land
sleeps till spring.

Wieslaw Musialowski 10/9/2001

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 5/26/2019

Do you remember the cars plainly carved up?
pine trunks and oak wheels,
with which we carried joy every day
to the potato field enveloped in smoke,
where carts with ammunition waited
and potato barricades stood

our big storages of bloodless weapon
- there we fought our potato wars.
A sip of water served as refreshing fare,
so everything was spinning around.
And when the battlefield has been captured at last,
tired, craving for settlement

by the fire with a song we bravely sat down
to conclude friendly agreements
- into young hearts with a warm thread sewn.
I know that you remember - how we could forget
the most beautiful moments? - It's like
not to see a certain beauty in the fields;

It's like losing in the time of beautiful weather
a piece of dear life that has been given to us,
to be able to always recall memories
and give advice to the lost...
overly idealized.
Hidden somewhere in the recesses of tomorrow,

as though intentionally with a secret mist enveloped
to delude, or for our convenience?
You remember the spring, so carefully selected
from among the purest? It's why we reached
to the very bottom - into innermost deposits,
to learn with a falcon's look

to grasp what a simple thought cannot,
if you won't look with stubbornness into the eyes
because lectures from the theory are not enough,
and blind faith will only do more damage.
However... solitary, we ran into the crowd,
wanting to acquire known and unknown:

to reach peaks rising from the darkness...
but perhaps it was right - to rather dream up,
than to compete with fate stubbornly.

Wieslaw Musialowski 3/19/2003

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski

And, after all, nothing has changed:
Home, children, worries - our daily lives plot,
and suddenly a smell of different strength...
forget-me-not.

Wieslaw Musialowski