We're back on your knees.
FIVE-SEPTEMBER
Hail our Motherland, Queen!
Mother, our toil and our pilgrimage paths
We're here again among the Sisters and Brothers
To repeat our Polish faith
Mother! our hope in a hard time of contempt
To those who have entrusted the rosary power
We look through past into our regular affairs
Because as always, we request your help.
The 15th of August returns with memory
An iron jaw and a Bolshevik scream
The 1 who stood at the door of the defended house
In the prefield threatened by the misfortune of Warsaw
Mother, a miracle over the Vistula River that opens the gates
Those who went to heaven carrying the burden of life
To our Homeland under your protection
She was like a constant miracle under your sceptre
For years, we have been carving with tears the memorial boards
How many are parent Crosses on the way to freedom
From Grunwald to Smolensk on our banners
God of Homeland and Your Evidence of Love
We again at your knees on August 15.
We environment you with prayerful applause
Because present we want to save like the 20th year
From the red calamity of infidel Warsaw!
Mother, it's me...
An incorruptible Polish poet...
Mother! I'm the incorruptible Polish poet
I come to you on your knees
Under Jasna Góra hope with a fistful of Polish words
To confirm the vows of the holy covenant
Trapped by the impatience of pilgrims
Who, like the sea, environment your walls with noise
Again snarled by the cleaning services
With a tight gag of unfair censorship
It's me, Mother! Polish poet with a stone of silence
With a flag of religion on swollen knees
I beg for Poland which is rotten and torn
He bleeds to death in unhealed wounds.
I come to save our wounded pride
Honor and Dignity... right to free Homeland
The fact Distributed by Publishers’ Dogs
Between graves of trampled fatherhood
I, Mother, with the crosses of Siberia and Volyn
Looking at a hazy historical distance
Today with the crosses of Katyń Vilnius and Smolenska
I'm watching... bringing you bitter Polish grief
Only white and red on the tower of bright mountain
He proudly talks about Polish freedom
Written in carved stones of history
And in the crumbs of Hope and Love
We didn't defend the home from thieves.
In front of the red plague and the buzz of the mammons
In the innkeeper's grove parent at your holy feet
Demons gather again and again
He who betrayed Poland in blasphemous light
Once again he wrestles with the Cross injuring the side of the Church
Shepherds in a hollow boat called Poland
They include helplessly bowed foreheads
Our guilt is not forgiven like sickness
Like a cancer that eats up hope in us
Dressed up in the talented rags of democracy
It smells like a common thing for liars and thieves.
I am a Polish poet with a rosary of mysteries
With inactive unhealed Polish wounds
I call on the regular Appeal...
Queen of Poland, parent of Polish Fate!
Have mercy on us...
.
