A poem by Krzysztof Kamil Baczyński, [Golden sky...]

Golden sky I'll open for you, hear the silence's white thread, the blue nut will crack and open, follow life paths, hear the sounds of the growing leaves of rivers, of the lakes' song, the dusk's music, till the morning birds will offer milk of dawn. The hard earth I will turn for you into liquid milkweeds' flight, I'll derive from things their shadows that coil themselves like cats, their fur sparks and folds each of things into storm hues, leaves' hearts, grain rains' convolution. And the air's streams vibrating like smoke above thatched roof I will turn into long boulevards of birches melodic flow coming like from a huge cello regret -- rosy climbers of light, bee anthem of wings. Just remove from my blinking eye a glass splinter -- the days' image which rolls white skulls from earth to sky through the burning meadows of blood. Just undo the crippled hours, hide the graves under the river's coat, blow the battle dust off of my hair, of angry years the black dust. Kamil Krzysztof Baczyński (tr. from Polish by wh)