Like leaves

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 7/19/2018

If for the orphans of golden autumn,
Then only in a country where they dig out
From sycamores, beech trees* - among ancestors' shadows
Because these, constantly dying live.

If hands of the poor fall
Like golden leaves, without the law of gravity
- Then what must be never changes
And richer they die.

If everything ecloses itself in the space
Over the crowns with radial glow
Then nothing apart from this color will change...
They'll be reborn again in the multi-leaf tree.

Wieslaw Musialowski 9/22/2004

Beech tree is a national Polish tree often found in Polish poetry.


Indeed

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 9/23/2019

Nestled into a pillow before falling asleep
maybe you will think to yourself
I managed to get something done today
and the rest? let it happen in dreams,

when you wake up fresh in the morning,
like the grass silvered with frost,
the sun will twinkle with a ray
and everything shall be great,

at midday, you'll sit under a tree,
because it's pleasant to rest in the shade,
and to end the day successfully
you look at the tops of the mountains

and you think how wonderful and beautiful
is autumn, luckily, the forest is not burning
though beech trees as red as fire

Wieslaw Musialowski 9/2/2019

*A reference to The 2019 Siberian wildfires.

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/3/2019

My homeland - dear land,
where for the first time I saw the sun  
and where I came to know God;
Where my father, brothers and mother kind
taught me prayers in my maternal tongue.

My homeland - villages and cities,
planted from the times of Piasts among Lechic fields;
Rivers, forests, flowery leas and meadows,
where larks sing their sweet songs of hope.

My homeland - our forefathers' glory,
Chrobry's Notched Sword and Cecora Mace,
Knightly Spirit, noble and brave,
bitter defeats and victories great.

My homeland - quiet green fields
for centuries trampled by hostile armies,
burial mounds and sad graves
that have covered our freedom defenders.

My homeland - heroic spirit of the Polish people,
that by miracle lives amid hunger and cold;
- hope that always blooms in hearts,
with work for the fathers, and song for the young!

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/8/2019

* * * (A sad September is heading over the tops...)

A sad September is heading over the tops,
through the barren peaks suddenly turned gray.
In his heart hidden luggage of memories he carries,
and only crickets' farewell sails
quietly rustle with wind filled,
rocking to sleep dreams* unfulfilled.

Wieslaw Musialowski 10/27/2002

*moments in the original

Autumnal Hour (Shorter)

Look! - from smoke I plait this poem short:
for fogs over an autumn meadow
with heathers strewn and drowsy,
for stubbles, fields and forests - in honor - of bards!
I? - I know they're hardly rustling
the strophes of simple words... And you? - you weave sorrows!

Wieslaw Musialowski 6/19/2002

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 8/15/2018

Late moon
takes the baton
- offering to the twilight
a bow in sacrifice:
with glow greeting
star aesthetes
- an orchestra of crickets
- eternal poets,
so that songs of love
inspired by the muses
- they would loudly sing
in the thickets.

Wieslaw Musialowski 10/9/2001

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

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 12/2/2019

I miss these people: simple and direct,
the green and blue open gate of the lowlands,
the majesty of generations, a real chamber,
conversations around the table, what's new in the village:
that Johnny is doing well, that he was lucky,
even though he has never been a top student in geography,
that Mary has a husband who loves and respects her,
for he knows that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover,
that a kind heart is a real treasure.
It should be taught at home from an early age
that there's a place above the door where Christ on a wooden cross
is waiting suffering, patient - he doesn't complain
that every day he has to see that it's not easy here
- everyone shall get as much as in the will
all deeds weigh on the scale, and the clock
counts the days and hours and works evenly:
sometimes he would like to slow down the heart of the machinery,
but the big hand is constantly urging the small one
oh, how can a whole comprise in one life,
can you excuse yourself, divide into smaller pieces?
- you need to be a human and to be cheerful in your life.

Wieslaw Musialowski 08/12/2017

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

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/7/2019

So poetically the mountain forest shimmers:
yellow-gold chickens here and there,
gray guineafowls' small chicks,
and hens clad in red of the dresses.

On the edge in beads of flames
a rafter of turkeys - eye-catching -
therefore colors of colorful flocks of poultry
in dying green submerged are easy to remember.

The cold ray gathers goose feathers:
and from quills arranges an autumn mattress,
while the whitest down he'll embroider into hours

with larch needle, so that a pillowcase made of the rainbow
every year would bloom many times
on the dial of a silver cobweb.

Wieslaw Musialowski 10/27/2002

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 8/20/2018

Kneeling before you,
I bow my head low,
confessing the truths
due to the Motherland:

it's you who taught me
to see beauty with a word,
and when I entrusted
my soul to you,
you made the bed
with mirror thought
- looking-glass' reflection -
dressed in pensive ponderings.

I love you, Poland,
when you are blooming in spring.
Your fertile fields
of gold wheat and barley.

I love,
when in summer,
in the aroma of linden trees,
adorned with flowers,
you lure with cool shade.

I love in autumn:
saddened,
rainy.

I love with pure and
unchanging love,
full of joy
of sins remission:
of Christmas Eve
examination of conscience.

I love, from south to north,
in February cold
and in hot July.

Your steel statues
of the Carpathian peaks.
Your streams, when rumbling
they carry the March ice floes.
Your beautiful sparkling willow greens
of Masurian waters,
when the sun is chasing
dancing rays
-with emerald's spark
of silver-plated steel,
before they'll disappear
with colors of the rainbow
in the hazy distance.

Your ancient castles,
standing proudly since the times of Piasts.

Your dunes, tamed with dwarf pine,
your country homesteads on the Bug and Prosna.

Polish wolves', eager for blood,
fearful thundering voices.
The heroic fate of the brave Polish armies.
Golden wheat ears of liberation
in the coat of arms of the Nation.

At the sources of the Vistula
I love you with reverie:
And over transparent waters
further reaches
I sob.

You'll hug me,
Mother!
Your son,
when you'll tuck me in
as my only Ma
-buried,
with eternal... loving.

Wieslaw Musialowski 10/9/2001

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

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

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 7/20/2018

Look! - white petals, like the first snow,
like a holiday linen tablecloths.
I? - I remember those holidays:
warm shadows of candles, you put on the table,
and the puff of breath in disarray,
entertains with the play of colors, and from feathers... sizzles.

Look! - from smoke I plait this poem short:
for fogs over an autumn meadow
with heathers strewn and drowsy,
for stubbles, fields and forests - in honor - of bards!
I? - I know they're hardly rustling
the strophes of simple words... And you? - you weave sorrows!

Wieslaw Musialowski 6/19/2002

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/2/2019

Paint me such a village in the valley,
sad with dark green firs and cheerful with crops...
Let she all in red rowanberries be,
and let gray linen lay on her meadows;
let colorful rainbows throw themselves across the silent pond,
dispersed by air that spurts out of the waters deep.
Let the cloud of pigeons flutter overhead,
and dandelions' soft fluff and spiders' silk threads...

And paint pastures and fertile fields,
and in their black soil let wheat and barley shine with gold,
and let fiery red of poppies ridges beautifully adorn,
and poplars over the road make into a string,
and throw the silvery mist on the meadows...

And let they walk so, loudly, through the field
heifers' bells and clapping of whips.
Let the willows ponder by the murmuring stream,
casting shadow pre-sunset and long,
and quiet calming blue give around,
and fill the air with birds' happy babbling.
And put such a cloud on the mountains' brow...
And only people make ours, so dear to my heart.

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

* The original name of the poem is "In a foreign land", as
the poem was written in Karlsbad in Germany.

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 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

Life's journey is hard for everyone,
but always try, as best as you can,
that it'd be a white-sailed ship
that will be awaiting you when
your odyssey comes to an end.

Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/25/2020

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 9/29/2019

Even if your ship would be caught in the greatest of storms,
you'll stay in charge unafraid being the helmsman for your crew,
like a good father caring for his children, you shall not let them die.

If you fall - you will not swear,
because your fellowmen will lift you up,
for your heart for everyone and everywhere.

Remember - money is the king of the world,
and friends? - they'll find you in need,
but the small flame of a poor-quality candle
always quickly goes out.

For your birthday some will bring you roses,
have you seen this flower without thorns?
while others - dasies from an oak wood,
adorned with the most innocent dew.

You'll have to choose - love or affection,
and given moment you'd better not confuse
that sometimes it's worth to think about that
what in its essence a flower shall remain.

Wieslaw Musialowski 5/10/2003

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 5/27/2019

Mother, you know - darkness is coming,
so lend me a lantern
that I may distinguish in the dark what is black.
That I may feel the white of the jasmines,
though their smell still makes me think of death,
but this affliction I would like to cure.
Plant the soothing flowers
and say - on the field furrows, like on a lowland meadow,
moments of happiness bloom as well
from a passage - to a passage.
Send me a letter of hope that you will be able to come
and that you will blow the candle out
when the time to wake up comes.
You will lead me by the hand because I am still a child,
and I'm not ashamed to ask you - talk to God there
about difficult matters - after all, you also
shared the burdens of existence,
here where every day is different
and where there are no sinless.

Copyright © by Wieslaw Musialowski 5/26/2019

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 9/27/2019

You are the Sisyphus of the modern world,
you try to move the boulder in the streets
narrow and winding, but it's so heavy,
and getting heavier on the scale of passing time,
you are getting older and older after every midnight,
so your figure - becomes angular,
and the cobble-****** street - trodden and slippery;
and the gutter has overgrown from all kind of the sewage
- you have scratches that don't want to heal,
the cataract has crept into worn-out eyes.

Youth has betrayed you, but not only you
- you'll get a wreath at the big funeral.

Copyright © by Wieslaw Musialowski 12/4/2018

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 10/1/2019

The most beautiful is the one who at the candle top
lives alone and this poem is about him:

tiny flame - a metaphor for life.

Przemyslaw Musialowski 8/21/2008

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/31/2019

The Night rose, all in white and fog,
and she shrouded the capital with silver breath,
and she lit up lightning bolts of diamond sparks
in the bedding of snows.
And who had a fireplace and loving arms,
that awaited him in his home,
was saying to this night "Be blessed! "
and who did not have, "Cursed be you! ",
And there were, ah! thousands of such voices...
And all shivering with cold and doubt,
and all strangely terrifying in silence...
Stars, stars on the sky! Does God hear them?
You look from up above, pale, and I'm also looking;
The wind is rising, and the snow is covering the road...
Stars, stars on the sky! if one of you responds,
I can't hear your soft and distant voice! ...

*

Oh, silvery Night! Fearsome queen!
You carry the iron scepter for the poor...
And misty hoarfrost veil overhead
you pin with a pearl of frozen tears.
Oh, silvery Night! is it your bright stars from heaven
they want, this crowd motionless and pale?
Have mercy, listen! All they're dreaming of is a little piece of bread -
and to warm themselves just a bit!
If I only were you, ice-hearted queen!
The largest diamond that shines in the azure skies,
I'd give to the poor into this snowstorm
for bread and fire for children...
And I know the sky wouldn't get paler
if for one of those beautiful stars in blue,
bright eyes, in which life then would have been ignited anew,
were shining with tears of joy into the air...
Oh, Night! You walk quietly, ice-cold,
upon your head snow crown glitters;
and your silver, heavy, long robe,
for a million - will be a shroud.

*

In front of the gate, where street lamps were burning,
the child stood, his teeth chattering.
Poor boy! he thought that the wall would protect him,
that the stones would warm him!
But the landlord has looked through the peephole
and quickly locked the door. And all at once hot child's tears,
like pearls, started to flow...
- "Tell him to go some other place! He'll drag us all into big trouble!
If he'll die outside from cold, things can get ugly,
police, investigation... maybe even jail! ".
Finally, the boy left crying. In the distance
granite walls of the temple were rising in the dark...
Above them - the fog of pale opals, and higher - grey ice clouds.
And a cross. The orphan - has knelt at the threshold.
Diamond snowflakes flew in the air...
He wanted to enter, but the church was shut tight
together with mercy and Almighty God.
If only Christ were here with us,
I know that every dark night he would walk
and gather the hungry and the poor
And he would feed them at his altars,
filling their hearts with faith and hope.

*

Chilled to the bone, child with glass eyes
was looking at the sky, at the Milky Way:
he wanted to complain, but his mother was dead,
so he whispered quietly through tears:
- "Our father, who art in heaven..." How it is possible, o son of God!
All nations call your father a Universal Sovereign
and you - staring at this blue palace -
are dying without a roof in front of a closed door?
"Our father, who art..." you say... and whose brother are you?
Those who with their dead souls in luxury anointed
with goblets full of wine in their hands
with loud cheers are drowning your dying moans?
"Our father, who art! ..." Lord God! do you hear this child
that speaks quietly with mouth pale with misery?
He deeply believes that you are a father to him,
and with this faith on his frozen lips, dies he!

*

The child started to pray... silvery fog
with a breath of his mouth has slightly dispelled,
at first hotter and blue-white,
later - cold and strangely transparent.
Finally, it disappeared... half open lips
stopped whispering prayers and complaints...
With dark silent edifice as only witness,
the child has died without a roof.

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

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 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 11/1/2019

Be strong, o brother! And with your eagle wings
whip the clouds, that clouds which threaten you with a storm...
We were born by days so sad and so hard
that great strength is needed not to die out
at some early, lonely grave like a blood-red lightning bolt,
but to live bravely on earth full of tears.

Be strong! Let your young arms
bear the burdens, worthy of your efforts...
Let brotherly love fill your chest...
For as long as at least one spirit in darkness dwells,
as long as at least one heart doesn't know
to what should it devote itself with persistence,
no swordsman should ever rest
in the silence of his own existence.

Be strong! Life overwhelms with its weight
those who, without the helm, will and power,
among the multitude of world's phenomena and contradictions,
err, unwillingly carried by the current of events,
absent-minded and not conscious of their own actions,
like a somnambulist sleep-walking through the night...
The Earth won't lean on them for sure!
And Humanity, in its triumphal march, never takes into account
those who having retreated before the battle - die.
And outside the persistent Spirit Realm
they won't exist, nor will this mysterious shadow,
which disappears when the immaculate sun rises in the sky.

A handful of noble men that are conquering
the future are like loose, solar links,
which are unable into one whole unite...
And maybe it's your spirit they lack
to close the circles of the big chain,
that will engird the globe and push it with might to a new path.

Be strong, o brother! ... ah, your proud chest
I would like to clad in a diamond breastplate,
against the burning breath of carnal lust
that takes you on a journey full of temptations,
against poisoned arrows of doubt
that strike you as bolts of lightning...
But I'm weak myself, and I cannot be your shield,
though I'm standing by your side
like a sister, outstretching my hands,
and I look at light slowly dying in your eyes,
and at your lips, which with a smile
blaspheme to the secret mournings of your soul,
like blasphemous would be a rose adorning orphans' black robes;
And in vain I want to protect you with my tears
against the scorching sun of life that dries up your chest;
And helplessly looking as your soul is dying,
I am calling: o brother, be strong! ...

The ground is shaking under your feet, but you must stay strong!
You have to remain at your post with courage undaunted in the storm.
He who carries the Torch of Hope and hoists
the Victory Standard at the summits of spirituality,
whoever imprints himself with lion's strength
on his own Age, the one to whom the Earth
is like a non-solidfied block,
that his divine mark awaits,
- only he the name of a "Man" shall gain
in the non-erasable annals of immortality!

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

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 8/22/2018

Love me while we're here,
love, because there's so much
love in us, and fragrance of wild lilacs
before the time of flowers will pass,

and we'll be gone too
and there will be such a time,
and there will be crying and pain,
but we know well, me and you,

that in this world
there's nothing eternal,
that so it must be:
- we'll die to live
and don't be surprised why

Wieslaw Musialowski 8/12/2016

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/5/2019

...Smaller than small is my spirit
And bigger than big.
Everlasting motion puts no limits
between the droplets of the sea.

Caught up in ocean's run
living waves roll free...
And one drop, which hits the bank,
is also called the sea.

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

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 8/24/2018

You carry it inside.
You pile it.
It grows.
It has a name:
Man.

Wieslaw Musialowski 8/24/2018

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/3/2019

And spring will come and it will open the buds,
but in my eyes it shall never die
the boundless white field...

And summer will come and ears of grain
shall ring. But in my eyes still, bright as day,
boundless white field...

And life will pass and death will cloud,
but in the coffin I'll open my eyes
into the boundless white field...

And midnight will come and I will rise from the grave
and I'll direct my pensive steps
to the boundless white field...

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 8/24/2018

Words in the rapids
- You won't catch up
Hard as stones
- Crushed
Existence.
They wash feet
- Half-dead

Wieslaw Musialowski 8/24/2018

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 7/11/2018

The spring outside the window smells of first rain,
And though autumn has colored hair with gray
- I love you still.

We won't leave by the same train,
Because it wasn't written in the Book of Fate,
- I still love you.

The words of hope which into the poem I compose,
Throw on my grave and remember, Dear,
- I love you as before.

Although into the Unknown carried by momentum's force
Maybe I will meet you in the endless blue one day
- And love I will.

Copyright © by Wieslaw Musialowski 08/2012

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/9/2019

From boulder to boulder, I was standing on a fragile plank
that separates light from darkness, death from life,
over the huge explosion of the precipice foamed...
Below me, the roar and beating of the wings of a dark night.

Through the moist floor of the moss tapestries, the abyss
is growling and, like a hound, rattling with the chain...
At my feet its foams, its anger, its howling...
I trample them, I strike them with lightning bolts... I am just a shade.

From boulder to boulder, I've descended under the mad assault
of waters, ferociously rushing at me and at the the abyss,
stunned by the simultaneous firing of a hundred death's guns.

And suddenly I felt like a light bird feather,
carried far away from the quiet marina by the breeze,
and trembling, I covered my eyes... I was just daydreaming.

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

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 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 11/4/2019

It's evening, Lord! The forest birds
towards their nests lean their wings...
Minstrels of your fields
have stopped to sing their songs.

I've spent a whole long hard day at work
in tears, longing for home...
and you didn't have a single bright ray
from the lights of the morning and of the day, and of the sun.
My time slowly bends to an end,
the evening star, trembling in the sky,
already flashes among the shadows of the night.

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

____
I am not happy with the last line. Original: "already flashes/twinkles/shines among the shadows.

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 9/28/2019

Dream, my Love, dream life,
let the night not scare you anymore,
we survived harder days before,
we survived more difficult years.

I could only give as much as
life itself was offering
when I still had enough strength
to struggle against all odds,
to straighten each of the roads,
although there were hundreds of twists,
but it was easier to keep walking
because fate was often helping us along,
and our parents' warm encouraging voice:
that we'll succeed despite the storms,
though maybe with a field flower
instead of a rose.

Copyright © by Wieslaw Musialowski 12/4/2018

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/6/2019

Don't hope for any light

Don't hope for any light in the midst of a storm,
neither on earth nor in the sky.
For whoever awaits it will certainly die
and he'll be a bell, ringing at his own funeral.
And only those won't be covered by the dark coat of night
who within themselves will find the light,
to clearly illuminate their path,
by kindling their own spiritual fire.

*by kindling their own fire of the spirit all alone.

A Toast

A fool would be the one who wants at sea depth
to quench the thirst that burns him from the inside,
who, clinging to the wide wave,
rises up with her and collapses into the abyss.
A fool! ... Life, the great cellarmaster,
is only going to give him a goblet full of bitterness.
Even without us, the seas flow into the abyss -
long live the wine!...

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/30/2019

You love your home, family home,
that every summer night, through silver mist,
with rustle of its linden trees accompanies your dreams,
and with silence soothes your tears?

You love your home, this old roof that tells a tale
about long-forgotten past and olden days,
family threshold of moss-covered entrance doors,
that warmly greets you after every long hard road?

You love your home, a refreshing aroma of golden grain
and grasses in the morning freshly cut,
of moist alders high and red roses wild,
that weave flowers into hawthorns' green thick hair?

You love your home, this forest dark,
that noise of its powerful songs
and ghosts moaning, and winds choir,
is pouring into your ever-restless blood?

You love your home, family home,
that amongst storms, in days of doubt,
when the thunder hits your soul,
with its memory saves you like a protective shield?

But if you truly love, and if you truly want
to live under this roof, to eat bread of grains,
guard thresholds so dear to you with your heart,
and lay your heart among beloved walls! ...

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)