A Carriage to Żelazowa Wola

So, again has the rushing of blood
flooded the grandeur of thought;
and again, has the beauty of life
in your youthful expeditions caught.
You have lived in all those times,
and embraced their fleeting presence;
and now to whom are you to sigh
— to long for all that is lost.

As the morning hours had passed
with songs from the elvish planes;
the most airy, unearthly arts
are born out of earthly pains.
Slowly the dark bitter nights
are conquered, by the cold-hearted lights,
as summer has his advice ignored,
impatiently humanity ignites.

Again the second nocturnes visit
your waning, wandering soul,
for eternity his music shall restore,
though on them you may die.
The gardens of his childhood home,
rest at the end of your nostalgic road;
your friends in February’s Warsaw
— alas, in this graveyard of humanity you lie.

In those days you have got on well,
though without unduly customs;
why must you now deny yourself,
where is your ardent, suffering sprouts?
Apathy is the illusion of sanity
in times of mechanical reverence;
when the beauty of life you surrender,
is when all griefs and loves are lost.

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Published in: on 31/05/2018 at 1:13 PM  Leave a Comment  

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