Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/11/2020
I look out the window and see memories:
wooden shrines - Christ is resting,
but his figure seems so full of life
under the small roof of the tree - temporality of existence,
when in the summer at midday sun is pulsating,
or the rain is whipping from the north, the south
in winter, when in December lumps of snow underfoot
and in spring, when the first bird at dawn
sings so beautifully that my heart trembles
as if from fear, but it's an illusion
because here, in the Mountains, old shadows wander
and they look whether smoke is coming from chimneys;
whether there's an abundance in the kitchen in every home,
an ordinary one, old-fashioned,
and bread on the table and people on the benches
and the iron cart rumbling on the stones.
Nothing changes, only we are more and more hunched
and it's harder to pay visits to our beloved mountains,
because it's closer to the night and not the same morning,
but we remember, as long as we exist.
Copyright © by Wiesław Musiałowski 02/06/2019
Topic(s) of this poem: christ, countryside, landscape , life, mountains
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.