In the torrent of your hair,
the river of your mouth,
in the forest dim as dusk,
cries are futile
idle the splash.
I’ll wrap up even in darkness, in twilight crimson indeed
and the world will go by with a twig, a shred or a gesture;
then silence will tumble
pass the eyes in a streak
and I’ll say: not being I am.
Thus flowing in you, your print
in my eyes or hung like a tear on my lids,
I’ll hear in you the sea with a dolphin silver-engraved,
in the shell of your body which roars in sleep.
Or in a grove where you are
a birch, white air
and milk of day,
giant barbarian
heaving a thousand ages,
I’ll burst through the rustle of the copse
in your boughs – a bird.
Dedication
One day – yet while yearning – an aeon,
one gesture – yet already the hurricanes march,
one step – yet here you are
forever – spirit waiting in dust.
(Krzysztof Kamil Baczynski)
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