A translation of my earlier Polish poem.

They saw her by an accident:

she was a sorrowful woman,

constricting herself

down to the ground,

with the swarm

of all these years,

which she's subsisted

somehow –

the tiddly creature,

nestling into the soil,

shaken with her fear

(as a field mouse,

when it's finally fled

to its burrow

from the clutches

of an eagle-owl),

was holding the tombstone

against her chest:

she had to be the another

victim of surviving,

while the other(s)

should have lasted.

They came to her

out of their propriety,

threw the blanket

on her back,

squeezed some slices

of bread to her hand,

and then gave her

a bowl of hot soup

(without a spoon).

„Theres a human settlement

close to this place",

sighs one of the rescuers.

„It seems they may take you in".

„We can't do this:

too many of us

are wounded,

and many others

went into captivity".

„Humans here are good,

and this beautiful memorial

of these two poor things

may be a sign

of their kindness..."

They walked away

from the worse child of God.

And she was still laying her sight

on the letters

forged into the stone

the memory:

-The son slain by the fate, which he tried to tame-

-The N.N. daughter-

The bread became covered

with mold

(and its one slice

was juiced

by the painful palm),

the soup was poured out

and it burned

the woman's knees.

The tormented rottenness,

shedding the tears

on the grass below,

was found by her man

after some time –

the last merciful deed

he could done for her,

was not bearing witness

to the truth.

The man covered

all past misfortunes

with him,

and kept the vigil with her

by the dear remains.

Then he laid her into the soil,

bid her farewell

and perished.