Jan Kochanowski [English translation]

Such your gifts, oh Lord, that we can’t enough get -

want more, and what we have - we have for naught.

Yet holding neither the life nor the genius,

to use the wealth of our only soul’s vaults.

For this we abuse the body, as if it was for ever:

with blood pays for conflicts, and affections fever

‘till it is capable of neither sleep nor the chalice;

ends creaking, leaking and smelling, swells and mourns.

Delight won’t rich from God gifts,

for our love’s used to only knowing profits.

Late wisdom arrives

of what to want in lives,

but hardly worth regret

what couldn’t be kept.

Remind us old parchment or calf skins

that yore it was known what now write the quills:

No coin or chowder, nor hasty amours

for always tempted by same questions.

Each on his own with God fought battles,

with his own torments blood boiled of others.

His own thoughts he stopped trusting, life abhorred,

his own scared fear, and of shame was ashamed.

At times delighted - by what? - he had no recollection

and passed away as wise, as at his conception.

Pupil against professor stands,

to dead no one living listens,

Refuse to learn our kids,

from our parent’s failures.

Who with virtues bored, hope distrusts

and his own steps uncertain - to the court clings.

There he can vent among others to him akin,

with belief in and knowledge of nothing.

The priest hungover against drinking preaches

a thief carries keys to the Crown’s riches.

A chancellor supports what empires pay for,

the wise in tribute before ignorance bow.

I know - for a secretary to the king I was,

‘till I elected to bow before Czarnolas.

The court has its merits:

in chambers - maidens,

in council nobility debating -

but there’s no-one worth talking [to].

Who knew to play and avoided no thought,

he will rest in tillia shadow with no fraught.

Among bees pondering existence’s setup -

will the crops yield, and will the pecker get up.

Will the country again in discord descend,

last book in print’s release will I attend,

which star’s mine - the one that’s falling,

or the one on the horizon, over morning ruling?

Many close and apart - depart daily,

and I’m rich in years, at the last pulling.

The less I taste you daily

The more I struggle craving:

For the celestial spheres,

insatiability ecstasies.

With days’ pried generosity

I’m thanking thee

• Artist:Jacek Kaczmarski