dreams cast spells lovingly
reality shatters it violently
That thrill of first touch
their shy hands to hair and skin
every morning,
meteors blaze water to
new earths where old bodies swim
Fries in her left hand
Lollipop dipped in ketchup
Toddler dinner time
My translation, from Polish, of a tragic poem by Tadeusz Borowski, one of the most chilling Holocaust poets I've ever read. Backstory in thread
"You will not come back to me. Neither
will the fog-drunken wind return.
The dead won't rise from common graves,
the brittle ash cannot unburn...."
the making of soup,
the pencil's arc,
the imagined expression,
the simply rebellious,
the protection of is,
the raw ingredient,
the rejection for cause,
the acceptance of isn't,
a cleansed effect,
in glistening eyes,
and shared affect
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