Marek Grechuta - W małym miasteczku

In tiny town, saints are living
with wood's pocket-knife such cut out,
that in their beards leak yet
smelled heaven's mirra rains.


They wear sheepskin coats, but barefooted
and on swan's hands carry
still hot bread's loaves
and on spindles canvas of heaven.


The are sawed only by great bandits
and by dog which from paw licks pain off
and even blind man by scepter of stick
mints them humble obeisance.


But just news on market litters
hay down and whiteness of ample carols
and wedding is commissioned
and hop is tapped in barrels.


And saints are going to procession,
and people drink light from their hands,
and saints are leading star of fields,
and people are bringing bread and salt.


Out of town white drums are burring
and moon is flaming shield
in hands of Lazarus who from afar
are going like cloud and like river.


He stop, he brush straw and dung
and salty silt away from forehead
and he calls such enormity of psalms
like he drunk the deepest sadness.

And saints kneel, community kneel,
sacrificial cloud baas in grass,
and from deep of night God Son
walks and leads peacock of heaven.


And more and more louder drums beat
and probably snows will rise from the death,
to bend the knee
behind bared neck of heaven.


And before Christ saints bring
shady hay, barefoot aurora,
and behind saints advisable silence of moss
litter light of dream down.


And before everybody Lazarus, by club,
opens barrels of mountains - and community,
drinking gray sadness of coolness,
think that got drunk by booze.


On the market in kneading-troughs dough grows,
meat crackles more and more louder,
vine pours, honey boils over,
like entwines grape with fire.


And saints, commingled with community,
sit and drink hugged,
and Christ sits and accurses
bread and split drop of vine.


And Lazarus gets up amidst guests,
and taking cross from Christ's arms,
bring it out to darkness again.