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.
