Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/29/2019

Why are you crying, oh sad little wind,
and why are you weeping so loud?
You should be sitting in your cozy hut,
and instead, you roam in the fields?

- My, oh, my! But you... you don't know,
my dear, my sweet child! I weep and I cry
because I don't have a hut, my own cozy hut,
and so forever and ever wander I must.

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/30/2019

There, in my country, in a faraway land
a hundred dimmed stars shine in a crown,
one hundred extinguished stars above the field stand,
like a hundred knights in an iron armor clad.

There, in my country, in a faraway land
one hundred red-hot hearts with longing burn,
one hundred red-hot hearts pound in the chest
like a ghost into armor iron plates.

There, in my country, in a faraway land
one hundred winds are galloping through fallow lands,
one hundred winds are galloping through the steppe trail
like one hundred steeds' golden horseshoes beating the ground.

And when one hundred days, one hundred nights shall pass,
with hearts full of power knights will rise,
knights will rise, horses will mount,
and they'll light up stars in the golden crown.

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 7/15/2018

When morphine was not a drug anymore,
And the wind outside the window howled along in pain,
Grandmothers were counting how many beads
After severe winter bleed on the viburnum.
To draw some blood from veins, said one;
The second, that the pressure in the clock will fall
And she won't be able to count how many more hours must pass
for the boat to arrive that takes you to the Afterlife;
The third said - to the Brim of Bliss,
And here kingscup in a human quagmire
bloomed in May, when New should be born
everywhere, and coffin trees?

Wieslaw Musialowski 12/7/2015

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 20/10/2019

Black thread spins itself,
slowly entwining your neck.
And it strangles you with might
all sorrows - soon will be gone.

In the distance, you hear the bells of Eternity,
foaming sough of blood is hissing in your ears,
your eyes wander around, around,
shaking like a wagon on potholes.

You are powerless against this great power
all your past is now lost:
devoid of regrets and all memories,
you are slowly heading towards the light
- a new Dawn there, in the darkness - is glowing.

Przemysalaw Musialowski 20/10/2019

* A new Beginning there, in the distance - is waiting.

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/7/2019

O scarecrow, dressed elegantly
- in worn-out shoes, ragged old hat,
on which black crow sits in dignity
and stares off into this distance where forest sad

- you certainly dream about traveling
into these wheat fields, grasses adorned with flowers
that you could lose your scarecrow's soul
running happily towards the horizon...

But you stand here, alas, forever lost in thoughts,
unable to understand where the restriction comes from,
with your straw heart always split
between both powerlessness and want.

Funny thing, my dear scarecrow - to have
so much on your own and not to.

Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/01/2008

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/5/2019

Sitting on the perch the rooster boasted:
soon the king of swimmers I'll be
and laurel wreath I will get:
Cos the champion of champions I am in this respect!
The hens, excited, clucked in admiration,
small yellow chicks silently listened in awe,
oinking happily were the piglets,
and the ducks? Like crazy they laughed!

Wieslaw Musialowski 10/15/2001

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 9/7/2019

The sun has saddened its face
with lots of gray,
and made the mountains' bed
with an abundance of colors:

For Winter - it makes the bed with whites.
For Autumn - with reds.
In the Summer - with golds.
And for Spring? - with lyrical greens.

It has adorned everything
with shades of colors
awakened but still sleepy,
spoiling with correlation
of fiery greens.

Enamored time of red
of autumn colors
will turn the forest into one big flame
with fulfillment of flirtation.

A dewdrop sobs in the morning
put to sleep by dusk,
flying away as a wreath of rainbow
it returns at dawn.

Wieslaw Musialowski 10/15/2001