ome, Mother, come if only in my dream,
now spring is here again and in the lot
all cherry-trees are dwarfed, I do not seem
to know those many rules that you once taught
(you took them back and in your memoirs I
cannot decipher anything, my eye
stumbles o’er a faded page and a broken phrase)
the rules of trimming withered sprigs on time,
of jobs unfinished in the yard the ways.
I feel like a dog on a tether now, for I’m
not able to surpass my limitation,
out there exists, in holiness, creation.
It’s not the point, for it was just a whim
- why explicate that forceful drifts run by
like sketches on your face, which seasons limn.
and still with the thought incisive must I vie:
how come that flowers make apple-trees so white
as if, hands numb with death, a candlelight.
Copyright © by Wiesław Musiałowski 11.02.2008
- why explicate that forceful drifts run by
like sketches on your face, which seasons limn.
and still with the thought incisive must I vie:
how come that flowers make apple-trees so white
as if, hands numb with death, a candlelight.
Copyright © by Wiesław Musiałowski 11.02.2008
