Here Read Online Free

nie, to na nic.
Powinien być sam,
jak niektórym przystało.

PORTRAIT FROM MEMORY
Everything seems to agree.
The head's shape, the features, the silhouette, the height.
But there's no resemblance.
Maybe not in that position?
A different color scheme?
Maybe more in profile,
as if looking at something?
What about something in his hands?
His own book? Someone else's?
A map? Binoculars? A fishing reel?
And should he be wearing something different?
A soldier's uniform in '39? Camp stripes?
A windbreaker from that closet?
Or—as if passing to the other shore—
up to his ankles, his knees, his waist, his neck,
deluged? Naked?
And maybe a backdrop should be added?
For example, a meadow still uncut?
Rushes? Birches? A lovely cloudy sky?
Maybe someone should be next to him?
Arguing with him? Joking?
Drinking? Playing cards?
A relative? A chum?
Several women? One?
Maybe standing in a window?
Going out the door?
With a stray dog at his feet?
In a friendly crowd?
No, no, all wrong.
He should be alone,
that suits some best.
And not so familiar, so close up?
Farther? Even farther?
In the furthermost depths of the image?
    Â 
I chyba nie tak poufale, z bliska?
Dalej? I jeszcze dalej?
W najzupełniejszej już głębi obrazu?
Skąd, gdyby nawet wołał,
nie doszedłby głos?
A co na pierwszym planie?
Ach, cokolwiek.
I tylko pod warunkiem, że będzie to ptak
przelatujący właśnie.
    Â 
His voice couldn't carry
even if he called?
And what in the foreground?
Oh, anything.
As long as it's a bird
just flying by.

SNY
Wbrew wiedzy i naukom geologów,
kpiąc sobie z ich magnesów, wykresów i map—
sen w ułamku sekundy
piętrzy przed nami góry tak bardzo kamienne,
jakby stały na jawie.
    Â 
A skoro góry, to i doliny, równiny
z pełną infrastrukturą.
Bez inżynierów, majstrów, robotników,
bez koparek, spycharek, dostawy budulca—
gwałtowne autostrady, nagłe mosty,
natychmiastowe miasta zaludnione gęsto.
    Â 
Bez reżyserów z tubą i operatorów—
tłumy dobrze wiedzące, kiedy nas przerazić
i w jakiej chwili zniknąć.
    Â 
Bez biegłych w swoim fachu architektów,
bez cieśli, bez murarzy, betoniarzy—
na ścieżce raptem domek jak zabawka,
a w nim ogromne sale z echem naszych kroków
i ściany wykonane z twardego powietrza.
    Â 
Nie tylko rozmach ale i dokładność—
poszczególny zegarek, całkowita mucha,
na stole obrus haftowany w kwiaty,
nadgryzione jabłuszko ze śladami zębów.
    Â 
A my—czego nie mogą cyrkowi sztukmistrze,
magowie, cudotwórcy i hipnotyzerzy—
nieupierzeni potrafimy fruwać,
w czarnych tunelach świecimy sobie oczami,

DREAMS
Despite the geologists' knowledge and craft,
mocking magnets, graphs and maps—
in a split second the dream
piles before us mountains as stony
as real life.
    Â 
And if mountains, then valleys, plains
with perfect infrastructures.
Without engineers, contractors, workers,
bulldozers, diggers, or supplies—
raging highways, instant bridges,
thickly populated pop-up cities.
    Â 
Without directors, megaphones, and cameramen—
crowds knowing exactly when to frighten us
and when to vanish.
    Â 
Without architects deft in their craft,
without carpenters, bricklayers, concrete pourers—
on the path a sudden house just like a toy,
and in it vast halls that echo with our steps
and walls constructed out of solid air.
    Â 
Not only the scale, it's also the precision—
a specific watch, an entire fly,
on the table a cloth with cross-stitched flowers,
a bitten apple with teeth marks.
    Â 
And we—unlike circus acrobats,
conjurers, wizards, and hypnotists—
can fly unfledged,
we light dark tunnels with our eyes,
    Â 
rozmawiamy ze swadą w nieznanym języku
i to nie z byle kim, bo z umarłymi.
    Â 
A na dodatek, wbrew własnej wolności,
wyborom serca i upodobaniom,
zatracamy