Page 29 - Do Ojca
P. 29
THE MEMORY OF TIME
You speak
with the wind of the Katyn Forest
you greet
with a pine needle,
a caress of the sun
from Kosogory.
I wait
for the wind
for the sun
that will dry the salty grief
on my face
such is our talk.
Sometimes –
a breeze is a windstorm,
pinecones are bullets of death,
the sun terrified with a memory
turns away from the earth in disgust
– it is the memory of time...
tłum. Wojciech Graniczewski
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