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)