2 мин
Слушать(AI)Wasp
When the honey, fruit and flowery tablecloth were whisked from the table in one sweep, it flew of with a start.
Entangled in the suffocating smoke of the curtains, it buzzed for a long time.
At last it reached the window.
It beat its weakening body repeatedly against the cold, solid air of the pane.
In the last flutter of its wings drowsed the faith that the body’s unrest can awaken a wind carrying us to longed-for worlds. You who stood under the window of your beloved, who saw your happiness in a shop window—do you know how to take away the sting of this death?
Zbigniew Herbert
Zbigniew Herbert (29 October 1924 – 28 July 1998) was a Polish poet, essayist, drama writer and moralist. He is one of the best known and the mo
Комментарии
Вам нужно войти , чтобы оставить комментарий
Другие работы автора
What Our Dead Do
Jan came this morning —I dreamt of my father he says he was riding in an oak coffin I walked next to the hearse and father turned to me: you dressed me nicely and the funeral is very beautiful at this time of year so many flowers it must have cost...
A Ballad That We Do Not Perish
Those who sailed at dawnbut will never returnleft their trace on a wave—a shell fell to the bottom of the seabeautiful as lips turned to stonethose who walked on a sandy roadbut could not reach the shuttered windowsthough they already saw the roof...
To My Bones
In my sleep it rips throughmy meagre skinthrows off the red bandage of the fleshand goes strolling through the roommy monument a little incompleteone can be prodigalwith tears and bloodwhat will endure here the longestmust be thoughtfully provided...
The Rain
When my older brother came back from war he had on his forehead a little silver star and under the star an abyss a splinter of shrapnel hit him at Verdun or perhaps at Grünwald (he’d forgotten the details) he used to talk much in many languages bu...
