Wiersze – Krzysztof Kamil Baczynski by Krzysztof Kamil Baczynski, , available at Book Depository with free delivery worldwide. Index of /wiersze/Krzysztof Kamil Baczynski. Icon Name Last modified Size Description [PARENTDIR] Parent Directory – [TXT] Krzysztof Kamil. Buy Baczynski-wiersze 1 by Krzysztof Kamil Baczynski (ISBN: ) from Amazon’s Book Store. Everyday low prices and free delivery on eligible.
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The belowe poems are presented here thanks to the courtesy of Professor Bill Johnstonthe translator of Baczynski’s poetry.
His translations of these and forty other Baczynski’s poems were published as “White Magic and Other Poems” a bilingual edition. And so this is all you have, then. Why such a name for a child? Why wings shaped in this way, mother?
Why a struggle, father, for such a fault? The earth wet and bloody from my tears. Love-what will it give firth wierzze, streams of tears. I’ll go on-this I have from you: Taka walka, ojcze, po co – takiej winie?
How to prise it from the husk of reveries?
Baczynski-wiersze : Krzysztof Kamil Baczynski :
After decease, how can faith by created? Madonna, with what will you save me from night? With a curve of your lips will you bring back the child?
Madonno, czym mnie wybawisz od nocy? They kept you, little son, from dreams like trembling butterflies, they wove you, little son, in dark red blood two mournful eyes, they painted landscapes with the yellow stitch of conflagrations, they decorated all with hangmen’s trees the flowing oceans. They taught you, little son, to know by heart your land of birth as you were carving out with tears of iron its many paths.
They reared you in the darkness and fed you on terror’s bread; you traveled gropingly that shamefulest of human roads. And then you left, my lovely son, with your black gun at midnight, and felt the evil prickling in the sound of each new baczynksi.
Before you fell, over the land you raised your hand in blessing. Was it a bullet killed you, son, or was it your heart bursting?
The wind whips the trees to foam. Huge skies drone overhead. And the baczyns,i sigh. We learned our lesson. There is no mercy. There is no conscience. There is no love. We rise in the dark and slippery night. Elegy They kept you, little son, from dreams like trembling butterflies, they wove you, little son, in dark red blood two mournful eyes, they painted landscapes with the yellow stitch of conflagrations, they decorated all with hangmen’s trees the flowing oceans.