Translated by Jarek Zawadzki
apologize, my Native Land,
that I must tread on Thee all day
in such an incompetent way.
Prime ministers and presidents,
with all your shining brogues and glory
and everybody else, I’m sorry.
Forgive me, too, you robot-mother
you studhorse-father, blame you not
the cheerless whelp that cried a lot.
Beneficiaries, bear no grudge,
I beg forgiveness now; and you
who’ve not been purged, forgive me too.
I’m sorry for my soppiness,
my affectations out-of-season,
and poems lacking rhyme or reason.
Forgive me, readers, above all,
that you have lost your hope somehow,
that none of you are smiling now.
Copyright © by Wiesław Musiałowski 1/18/2003
