My Madonna in sin conceived,
those are no trespasses that lack tears,
A night like a beast nestled in fear,
a night that always remembers.
Mouth bitter and dry echoes
stalks burnt young,
eyes barren with fire -
a golden kernel.
How do I shell reverie?
Death done shall I keep faith?
I am your glow which sinks
in seas revolving like earth.
Madonna, how'll you redeem me from the night?
Will your lips, turned down, bring back the child,
let disklike dreams, waterfalls, and flowers
tumble through me?
Make an infallible motion, call back
chilly winds pouring out of pitchers
a flamelike lotion.
'tis night today, and I wake before I ripen
in the mirrors of your tears.
How is it that solid flesh
turns in my hands
to clay or sand
each wish to guilt.
How is it that the flower I touch
grows dark
trees' rustle deaf
clouds turn to thunder above me.
How is it that I elapse unseen
a trifle to myself,
and before I sculpt,
I fill the marble with fright.
How is it I give ear to
lightning in a heaven of fear,
Do I call God
my every deed?
Thus I, a splinter
from the tree of great equanimity,
to my own eyes an alien,
to my God a stranger.
Thus I hear myself
become ash and crumble.
Ever smaller in flesh
I gain faith in my soul.
Krzysztof Kamil Baczynski died in the Warsaw uprising defending a house near the Wielki Theater.
Translated by Alex Kurczaba. Kurczaba is an Associate Professor of Polish language and literature at the University of Illinois-Chicago. The originals of the translated poems: "Elegia," "Sen tropikalny," "Noc," "O moj ty smutku cichy," can be found in Krzysztof Kamil Baczynski, Utwory zebrane (Krakow: Wydawnictwo Literackie 1979).