By Tadeusz Dąbrowski

Yesterday I sent you a letter. And today on the phone

you tell me you are pregnant. I pack up and return,

you greet me at the airport, you’re even lovelier than

in my letter that’s on its way to you. We build

a house, our child grows, our parents shrink,

then a few years of sweat and tears, in which we prudently

pickle cabbage and gherkins for the ever-colder days.

In the coloring book of our life there are fewer and fewer

blank spaces, the crayons grow shorter, we try to be precise,

but even so we go over the lines. We busy ourselves

with everyday matters, and our paths are ever

deeper, they start to look like tunnels. Meanwhile

my letter’s on its way to you. You’ll open it when

it suits you best.

(Translated, from the Polish, by Antonia Lloyd-Jones.)


Popular posts from this blog

Acquainted With The Night

White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field