HOUSE ON THE ROAD
Lord!
In vain, a man fills his voices.
Even if he had the strength and courage of a husband
Not loving will die as starving
J. Slovak
Because now that everyone's moving around the world
And our home at the crossroads open to fire
I'm trying to make certain the structure is strong enough.
So that the dream of the Polish Witch might yet come true
For centuries weary of the paths of pilgrimage
With hope, he frequently fell in blood
When destiny vindictively carried him with the kibits of fear
Before he yet took pity and sighed over us
So everyone can go home by the Vistula
From the Antipodes of longing - from Siberian snow
When they stand and at the door of a dream house
They'll call loudly with their heart suffocating from the run...
But we forget fire at home smoke
Open door on fire - cold in the corners sits
The last painters are dying under the window...
And the last of the faithful silent ballad...
I love her as much as I can... that's not what I'm ashamed of...
I love her old-fashioned for graves and crosses.
Words - which consecutive as the way of childhood
I was moving home... because... it was the closest...
To the rough hand of Father - and to the knees of Mother
This cradle of hope and hills of trust
This is where I put the crumbs of history.
And I learned the hard to land love
Where the fire of the slayer stopped the storms
And prayer was a roof in a time of concern
Where Mr Tadeusz went to teach us Polish
And Sienkiewicz protected the Trilogy from doubt
I remember Slovak... light and nervous...
With eyes burning... dense as lead
Among his heroes like a prince unbreakable
Through my dreams he flew among his angels
Where Norwid's snarled candles burned at night
He brought black flowers and wandered among the shadows
And he whispered his V a d e m u m...
And he pulled a bloody thread out of the Polish conscience
I love her as much as I can... a heart not a mind
I frequently get her drunk like besides much wine
I don't want anything from her. I just want it.
To erstwhile confirm... that I was her son...
Like those under the stones in the bloody sutannas
The Testament was written somewhere underneath Suchovol
And now we carry them in a swollen memory.
Like a splinter that inactive hurts...
