Krajobraz z wilgą i ludzie [English translation]

This neighbourhood is too glamorous

Swallows make frescos over the water

Blue cold is having a nap in the jug of the lake

The lips say what eyes can see

The light is rustling, leaves are conspiring

against the fairytale that lumps in forest like a bear

Where is the love walking unpunished?

In the dress of a jester, a bird and an angel

From under ground blue lanterns

will be called by her dancing foot to our judgement

In the evening, people will be sitting under apple tree

and praying and killing each other for her.

Pictures blessed with holy water are sold to them

and storms are quieten in them with water

Organs are playing and masks

are ripped off from their faces by a monk walking through ash.

Then you can see that the saints and them

are sad in the shadow of the same apple tree

It's enough to go down from the hill,

clap your hands and take the violin out of the gloom

where the song is ruffling its gray feathers

They will dance even if they should dance oberek [1]

on a cloud

They will take a dancer from hell if she captivates them

Here it will be like after a storm

when it's enough to nudge a branch

to still feel the phosphorus of a lightning

The flute will not repeat this picture

There is a bowl of lentils in front of us

And in the darkness of a psalm the body is leaning

Because those people were born dancing

Only sometimes through the wings of brzenica

they go to pray to the stars with a rosary

or leaning on an orchard with their back

they are searching with a cat fear for the pupils

of the Earth through which the scent of myrrh is going

Then suddenly my country will appear in somebody's dream

with a boy at the forest and a horse at the well

a shy branch will escape from leaves

a bird will call the forest echo in the dream

the afterglow will rumble going away

and it will make a night nest under thatch

The lanterns went out, only a May night

learns how to play love songs with a flute

it stops, hears and again plays

from sleeping aspen the flute is calling

the river about which you know only

that it's made of green and it talks about nothing.

• Artist:Marek Grechuta