znów
kawałek mego ciała umarł
na łożu usłanym pyłem księżyca
kochałam się ze śmiercią

proch pozostały
na mych ustach na zawsze
wyśpiewuje kołysankę
zgłodniałym ptakom

a ja chciałam tylko
zebrać swoje łzy
do szklanego flakonika
twoich perfum

Translation:

MIDNIGHT

once again
a piece of my flesh died
on a bed of moon dust
I made love to death

the ash remaining
on my lips forever
singing a lullaby
to hungry birds

and all I wanted
was to collect my tears
in the glass bottle

No knowledge of obituaries, Strangeness in a headache; With just an ounce of pain, Men would step into mortality. The sword, spear, guns accompanying bullets, Only but shear articles of wonder, White or black lies, Just the thought of hatred, Similitude of hell itself. News of intertribal clashes, Would fail to register meaning; The grave, explorative sight for learning, Illness, quarantined for study purposes. Dictionaries void of words such as, Poverty, lack, misery; World encyclopedias renouncing events, Tortuous, calamity filled history, Men of terror unknown. Roll back time itself to per

Ye raconteurs of literature,
Ye shooting stars of scenery,
Ye architects of portraiture,
And masterminds of melody–

Pray harken to what I’m to say:
The darkness keeps us out of sight.
Yet let’s not wallow in dismay,
We all must make towards the light!

For know how life without a sound
Hath placed us lowest of the low.
For many years we’ve roamed around
With numbers that proceed to grow.

’Tis by such circumstances plain
That we must rise and voices raise,
For we’re among who entertain,
And thus deserve a higher praise.

Time ticks on tiptoes into dusk and dawn,

As ev’ry tock becomes a yesterday,

And ev’ry hand propels tomorrow on.
 


The measure of its minutes paves the way

Towards uncertainty yet understanding,

Whilst we along the road less travelled stray.
 


No matter how extended or demanding

The course may seem on sore and shuffling feet,

Time hour by hour progresses notwithstanding.
 


And echoed in the metronomic beat

Significantly sounding from the heart,

Time loops on end, though seldom on repeat.
 


With the summer rays receding,
And the trees abscising leaves;
With the breeze becoming bitter
As a warning for long sleeves;
In the bleak and heavy silence
When the world is on the wane–
Woe to the cold and lonely
That Winter comes again.

As the colours lose their lustres,
And the clouds eclipse the sky;
As Nature creaks and whistles,
And the threat of snow is high;
As the dried-out dregs of Autumn
Mesh and molder in the rain–
Woe to the tired and hungry
That Winter comes again.

With the hearth prepared with kindling,

How sweet a sound is feminine,
How softly female skips
Along the ripples of the tongue
And through the supple lips.

A simple sigh of feminine,
Or female, woman, girl,
Exhales a warm and mystic charm
That spurs the soul to whirl.

Whilst masculine is coarse as stone,
And decked in monochrome.
He squarely stands and keeps his march
Set to a metronome.

He leaves a bitter aftertaste,
That tingles skin and bone.
And needs a dose of feminine,
To tint and tame his tone.

Yet ev’ry face of feminine
Was made from molds of man,

Beyond the furthest mountain peak,
where rivers gently flow,
where balmy breezes stir the air,
and hallowed bliss is ev’rywhere–
there lies the place the heartsick seek
to end their woe.
The splendour drives away despair,
and makes assertive of the meek.
More teachings than through sages flow
in the land where lilacs grow.

No winters e’er discharge their chill,
no clouds e’er cross the sky.
No perils lurk to stain with dread
the land to which the dying head
in want to have one final thrill
before they die.
Beneath the lilacs lie the dead–

Beneath a sickly sky,
Against the motion
Of the heart,
Set apart
From the world;
From humanity.

Where every piece of pie
Becomes a notion
Of eternity:

We live, we die, we’re born again,
Never knowing when.

Feet on the shore and eye
Towards the ocean,
All night and day
Drifts in delay,
As time goes by–

Time is astray.

As simple passersby
With lack of lotion,
We burn beneath the sultry sun–
With hollow goals,
Stuffed hearts and souls–
And feel as though we weigh a ton.

From low to high,

daring words, are the nuissance to old books
tangents, webbed castings of reality,
but i spit my words out like shattered glass
counting the pieces, never picking them up
the sky is cracking, we've no time to look.
lungs swelling like butterfly prisons erupting
winged creatures, imagination's invention
these bookworms run sprinting on splintering legs
too late, my tongue is already broken
my daring words a nusissance to the sky.