Page 16 - Do Ojca
P. 16
FATHER, DAD...
Father, Dad –
The words never pronounced,
with a dry gunshot detached
from a child’s lips ...
with a hot wave they return when –
in the depth of the Katyn Ditches
in the piles of firmly pressed bodies
amongst the thousands of the martyred
- our Fathers are.
In their tied up hands
power still trembles.
In their crushed skulls
Memory still burns.
On their lips –
Our names.
Their brains – gave us wisdom,
their hearts – love
their hands – kindness.
Bones merged in the tomb of martyrdom
gave us the power of waiting for justice.
tłum. Wojciech Graniczewski
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