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O earth of graves and crosses – as in the abyss of November –
saw you Polish romanticist poet
And it wasn't a imagination from the desert,
compared Poland to a cemetery,
And with the end of the war, the forest of gallows grew...
Ghosts of insurgents fighting the armies of the Tsar
They were inactive roaming the country,
As the heroes went to Siberia
bearing in head Polish name
And yet they go like this for centuries,
To die in snow and blizzard...
Today, we are tortured by our fellow countrymen,
What they forgot to say
during semi-century captivity,
That's how we got to the void and the complaint,
Nothing unspoken.
You won't find words to quit your burden
the misfortune of specified a severe measure,
born of blind and stubborn hatred,
that poisons minds and hearts
against the voices of reason and conscience
spread - as Descartes thought –
evenly among those seeking truth,
Although it is not a needle in a haystack
and shines from blood scattered by wind
In the Smolensk fog in which we walk helpless
And we can't leave.
smitten by her deadly whiteness
in painful silence after the explosion,
When the country is ruled by traitors again,
There are slanderers on all side,
Your name – Polish – means nothing to them...
Marek Baterowicz , 2024/25
Editorial:
We encourage you to get the book by Marek Baterowicz published by our association - stories about the "war of Jaruzel"- It's coming in the wound.
