You Ask Me How The Dead Are Born
written by: Józefa Ślusarczyk-Latos
you ask me how the dead are born – and when,
since there is no crying and no drum beat heard
thistle is burned and stubble field bleeds – or snow falls
and the frozen earth grudgingly opens the door
but why do you ask – by whose command they leave the earth
with fresh breath of spring on their lips – I know as much as you do –
solemn singing streams down from March clouds –
pieces of Schumann and of Pergolesi
their names grow into one with the trees
they push through the beads of traffic jams
while others nearby – through the door of dawn
when city’s heavy eyelid raises
they’re like neither shape nor form
and no longer expect any applause
you ask me when the dead are born – how do they pass
onto milky ways – by nettle light or the shadow line
catching with their teeth at the last sharp straw of heaven
where does it come from – this incessant song –
they have nothing to lose – their hours
like words eternal – sing in the rock – Hosanna
then there is a moment of silence – as if dinner was over
but if you’d like to interrupt their mission
or make them turn back when their things are already packed
winged whispers will surround you – whirling leaves –
they will cast the abyss of time
like a white lake at your feet
so why do you ask – which tree kneels
when they are born
why not question a chaffinch or bunting
– it sings so loud before dusk –
it will surely tell you more –
for angels’ and birds’ dreams follow the same path
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