O you, my silent sadness

You, my silent sadness,
the sadness of small stars,
I sought you, called you forth,
took you in my arms.
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 (1921-1944),   1 November 1942

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.