Batalha
There, in my country, in a faraway land
one hundred dimmed stars shine in a crown,
one hundred extinguished stars above the field stand,
like one hundred knights in iron armor clad.
There, in my country, in a faraway land
one hundred hearts with longing burn,
one hundred hearts pound in the chests
like a ghost on iron armor plates.
There, in my country, in a faraway land
one hundred winds gallop through fallow lands,
one hundred winds thunder through the steppe trail
like one hundred golden horseshoes beating the ground.
And when one hundred days, one hundred nights shall pass,
with hearts filled with power, knights will rise,
knights will rise, horses they will mount,
and light up the stars in the golden crown.
The human eye, imperfect eye,
sees millions of stars in the distant sky...
sees, as somewhere in the boundlesness
The infinity of worlds burns.
But is it possible that in my spirit
God's eye is closed,
with which I will see the sun of truth,
when I open it beyond the grave?
This land that I am to inherit
will be a silent grave.
The peace makers shall settle there...
This is how Lord vowed his vow.
There into a sleep full of light
the meek and the aggrieved shall fall,
and from their hearts the blue flax will sprout,
on the blades of rays.
And from their breast a bloody hawthorn will sprout,
bearing thorns of wrongs they'd suffered...
And this heritage, this silent land
the Lord shall give them - loyally.
And the night will come there across bright dew,
to sprinkle handfuls of seed stars,
and the glow of the moon, like a silver ear,
will lay on the fields.
And this heritage will continue to grow
in the morning and at night,
until to the suffering of the meek
the Lord shall say: 'Enough! '
And the land - will be no more!
Paint me such a village in the valley,
sad with dark green firs and cheerful with crops...
Let she all in red rowanberries be,
and let gray linen lay on her meadows,
let colorful rainbows throw themselves across the silent pond,
dispersed by air that spouts out of the waters deep.
Let the cloud of pigeons flutter overhead,
and dandelions' soft fluff and spiders' silk threads...
And paint pastures and fertile fields,
and in their black soil let wheat and barley shine with gold,
and let fiery red of poppies ridges beautifully adorn,
and poplars over the road make into a string,
and throw the silvery mist on the meadows...
And let them walk so, loudly, through the field
heifers' bells and clapping of whips.
Let the willows ponder by the murmuring stream,
casting shadows pre-sunset and long,
and quiet calming blue give around,
and fill the air with birds' happy babbling.
And put such a cloud on the mountains' brow...
And only its people make ours, so dear to my heart.
Maria Konopnicka (1842 - 1910)
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski
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