how quick: the quiet avarice in whitening:
blackening, vanishing into furrows in the road a crow flock crumbles.
How clear my breath is on the pane. Fractured with violet, fields
wide, gaping. Parched ponds as docile
as if touched by gentle hands,
not bandages of frost.
The hills grow cold over the crowns of apples and alders,
in the window a light is lit in the distance. Sparks of warmth wander
into the ashes of dusk,
unthinking I break of a hunk of bread:
and we, how quick, into furrows of time, into mute
and like stones
Marzana Bogumila Kielar, New European Poets, traduzido do polaco por W. Martin, Kevin Pruffer (eds.), Graywolf Press, 2008
blackening, vanishing into furrows in the road a crow flock crumbles.
How clear my breath is on the pane. Fractured with violet, fields
wide, gaping. Parched ponds as docile
as if touched by gentle hands,
not bandages of frost.
The hills grow cold over the crowns of apples and alders,
in the window a light is lit in the distance. Sparks of warmth wander
into the ashes of dusk,
unthinking I break of a hunk of bread:
and we, how quick, into furrows of time, into mute
and like stones
Marzana Bogumila Kielar, New European Poets, traduzido do polaco por W. Martin, Kevin Pruffer (eds.), Graywolf Press, 2008
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