Few huts so close amid the fallows knit
Of fir tree logs by clever craftsmen wrought
In silent yards gray-headed people sit
A tiny church with a pine prie-dieu on spot
With shingles in the roof of timeworn wood
and altar-facing benches in a row
with candles of life wisdom which are stood
In furbished oaken candlesticks aglow
A well with a crane in the heart of the village stands
with casing of hewn beech-wood neatly lined
like relics of medieval times the hands
of the clock on the local town hall tower aligned
Beyond the fields against the grove’s wall leaning
A Christ this wooden village oversees well meaning.
Of fir tree logs by clever craftsmen wrought
In silent yards gray-headed people sit
A tiny church with a pine prie-dieu on spot
With shingles in the roof of timeworn wood
and altar-facing benches in a row
with candles of life wisdom which are stood
In furbished oaken candlesticks aglow
A well with a crane in the heart of the village stands
with casing of hewn beech-wood neatly lined
like relics of medieval times the hands
of the clock on the local town hall tower aligned
Beyond the fields against the grove’s wall leaning
A Christ this wooden village oversees well meaning.
Copyright © by Wiesław Musiałowski 20/01/2006
