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Here all the boughs belong to the dead,
they wave the boughs persistently in the wind;
do their young eyes still live in the photo albums,
I don’t know, they left the uniforms behind,
the wedding gowns, the first communion clothes,
naked they slither between the boughs;
is there a place to graze or picnic at God’s, I don’t know;

I can’t believe in mythologies,
I don’t quite believe only in decay,
to return to this earth in Spring, lash with rain,
to be a bright force, a bitter dandelion in the gravel.


Ewa Chrusciel
Translated by

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