I.
Long fall nights,
With the radiance of the mysterious moon of the full moon,
With your fingers open,
The richly decorated covers of the beloved novels,
I was moving slow with my thoughts,
To the worlds on their cards painted,
An inspired author with a brush of imagination,
Soaked in mysterious colors of the past...
Probably years ago,
In writing them he put all his heart,
A dedicated case of the inspired writer,
With his works consumed without rest...
In the long evenings, a prominent old writer,
Touching the quilt,
His imagination was on paper,
To inspire future generations...
In the ways of the present,
Young people in the modern planet lost,
In colorful literary characters,
The worthy function models have found...
In matters of everyday life so complicated,
Bend over the cards of the beloved novels,
By reading into their heroes extraordinary fates,
From the grief of all comforts they found...
So I was erstwhile in the works that were mentioned,
Reading out of memory,
As the night's darkness engulfed the earth,
And erstwhile the golden sun came into zenith,
Is it a pleasant summertime evening,
Or a sad winter afternoon,
I kept turning the pages of another Master of novels...
- I'm sorry. The city of the air breathing Kraszewski...
II.
Touching the nostalgia of the Old Fairy Tale cover,
With interest in another Ljubljana card,
I walked through my soul's eyes,
In that planet of centuries past...
To sink into it without memory,
With my imagination,
All his secrets be explored,
A simple reader with countless conjecture...
In the vast bays of the country of Polan,
I was carried distant by a reader's imagination,
From where she sang her song,
The young beauty of Ljubljana...
From where did the young Sisters Zev and the Strange,
They called out the unheard whispers of a young reader,
Cursed in the mysterious power of the written word,
To paint a image in my head of forgotten ancients...
By the mysterious ancients,
From the present, they evoked my imagination,
Evil King Weeds terrible history,
In ancient legends, the word of Time spelled...
From the depths of the ancient past caught,
A distinguished novelist with creative inspiration,
A clean paper with a split,
For generations of readers to be excited...
So in the ancient depths,
I cast a net of my reading imagination,
With my novelist, the beloved,
In the dark of past the past has been led,
♪ Thrown into the passage of time by a word of a witch ♪
Touching the strings of my sensitivity,
Turning over more cards from Ljubljana and Old Fairy Tale...
- I'm sorry. The city of the air breathing Kraszewski...
III.
The large mysteries of the first Sands,
Hidden in the run of history,
Like a richly decorated trunk of interior,
A tiny crumb of precious crystal,
Extracted from memory by the invisible hand of imagination,
Bending over the past of prominent novelists,
And like holy herbs in beautiful girls of flowers,
Embed in further excellent chapters novels,
Where the stormy fates of the home of Lubon,
Thrown into the twilight of the pagan times,
intertwined with the past of the Piast dynasty,
They marked the Christian Polish threshold,
When He returned from captivity years later,
Carrying in the heart the treasure of the fresh Faith,
By the Word of God, like flint,
The start of Christianity in the country of Polan started,
Where is Jurga and Andriszka, the Jax brothers,
They feared before King Boleslaw,
Have their faults been forgiven,
Sinked together in the insecure,
To get a generous king's forgiveness,
To go before the Pope soon,
By taking out his king's crown,
Papal to coronation by obtaining permission...
With the eyes of the soul upon the Mazovia canyons,
Where a pagan reaction swept thousands of flames,
The wrath of Mazowshan reaching for the sparking stars,
A lousy hatred that's in your heart,
When the time of the large conflict was over,
Rejoicing the soul with the triumph of the Kazimierz armies,
I took pity on Maslaw's unfortunate fate...
- I'm sorry. The city of the air breathing Kraszewski...
IV.
Many secrets of noble manors,
Slept by the gentle darkness of history,
Like a web of insides filled with dark chambers,
Hiding clay jugs full of frank-gold tallars,
My beloved novelist revealed to me,
On the tens of his novels,
Bedspreads hiding the past centuries,
By pulling his sharpened pen...
Where she cried her eyes to the pillow at night,
A young flame delicate girl,
With an unwanted matrimony knot,
With a violent character unloved man...
Where's the crazy old brownie,
In a crazy rage, she wandered through the woods,
In the mysterious glow of the full moon,
Unhappy as years before, young Wilczkowa...
Where Master Twardowski of the moon admired,
As with the fever of Janas Korczak,
He jumped on a burning castle roof,
To burn the tiles in memory of the ax,
By stopping a brazenly spreading fire,
Excited by the imagination of the author on card novels,
Reflecting in the frightened swordfish of the pupils,
Like a glowing star in the blade of an iron sword...
Long moon nights,
In beloved books with no memory,
Looking at the eyes of the soul in their emotions of the depths,
The stories of the others, consumed without rest,
Being simply a present spirit,
Amongst the many large feasts of nobles,
I knocked over yellow cards of subsequent novels...
- I'm sorry. The city of the air breathing Kraszewski...
V.
With and without the hard to read,
The touching problems of the simple people,
Embed in intricate meanders of centuries-old history,
touching aspects of inequality, poverty, poverty,
"Between the greens of the countryside,
Between the hairy peasant huts,
I wandered with the eyes of my soul,
Full of stories of emotion...
And for the village where the lonely hut stood,
The reader's imagination wandered,
By pitying the destiny of 2 men,
Connected by the power of unexpected feeling...
Where the mysterious Gypsy Aza,
She danced at night in the moonlight,
Reflected in her magic pupils,
Running down her raven-black hair...
Where the feelings smoldering in the heart of the Ulan,
Among the hairy peasant huts,
In spite of the centuries,
And in our times...
Still in the hearts of young girls,
Among the multi-story glass towers,
Like his beloved literary heroes,
Searching for actual love...
Walking through the eyes of imagination,
To the Polesia Volynsky forest, swamps, forests,
To pay tribute to simplicity and industriousness,
The people who erstwhile lived there were simple,
Complimenting for the end of the Jermola peasant,
I shed tears over yellow card novels,
Taking a deep breath from the emotion...
- I'm sorry. The city of the air breathing Kraszewski...
VI.
Admired to the depths of all these novels,
Dreaming to sleep squinting his eyelids,
"Dreaming in his dreams those paintings,
The moon nights of a dream,
Everything I read about in the light of day,
With the colorful readings of his emotions,
In the darkness of the night I dreamt,
Cursed by the power of imagination in dream images...
My secret dreams with power,
Giving surviving colors engraved in memory to chapters,
Written on paper in black ink,
Forged in the heart to last deep,
Like another readers like me, millions,
Dreaming, we charmed them into surviving images,
In the embrace of the friendly black parent of the night,
In the sleep of the abyss, remaining sunk...
And I saw millions of faithful readers of dreams,
Excited by their beloved fresh writer,
Hidden like the richest treasures,
In the mysterious unknown human eye of the cave,
Hidden between human emotions with constellations,
Various reading experiences with constellations,
Rich collections and giant libraries of galaxies,
And the universes sunk in the hearts of the depths...
And touched with the eyes of the soul of the large Mystery,
Drowned in the darkness of the night,
What they dream of sleeping unwaveringly in a stone sleep,
Lovers of Józef Ignacy Kraszewski...
When their dreams are guarded by a golden moon,
In dream dreams, unconsciously sunk,
The worlds of the beloved novels could inactive dream...
- I'm sorry. The city of the air breathing Kraszewski...
A poem inspired by the work of Józef Ignacy Kraszewski.
