Adam Ziemianin

Look Ann at the snow
we have behind
December's window

Angels passed
through, intent,
but their footprints are not there

That's an organ player
in felt-shoes
carrying holly bread

he dropped as if
from the sky
in a blue quilted-jacket

he wishes us happiness
with a glass of vodka
he drinks to health

but the time will come
he will be more sad than usual
adn then I will tell you

look Ann
we have snow in our hair
which doesn't melt.

She weaved a husband
and a son on the looms
they lived together
in her house

the husband is ordinary
he can be liked
probably he doesn't drink
and doesnn't say much

the son is made out of soft wool,
his sandal unsure-afraid
to come down from the wall
to touch the ground with his foot

but she waits,
circles near the looms,
already very tired rrom weaving
since unremembered time
a letter to her God.

This lady behind,
with a warm look in her eyes,
is my mother
( the whole tapestry, really,
should be dedicated to her)

and this gentelman in a light suit,
since the beginning out of fashion,
with a serious look in his eyes,
is my father

in the middle-1,
right after the first communion,
looking for myself with a candle

what is going to grow out of him
ask my mother's eyes,
for sure nothing good
answer in chorus my father's cold eyes.

powrót