Sunday, May 31, 2015

Mother by Zbigniew Herbert


He fell from her knees like a ball of yarn. 
He unwound in a hurry and ran blindly away. 
She held the beginning of life. She would wind it 
on her finger like a ring, she wanted to preserve him. 
He was rolling down steep slopes, sometimes 
he was climbing up. He would come back tangled, and 
be silent. 
Never will he return to the sweet throne of her knees. 

The stretched-out hands are alight in the darkness 
like an old town.

(Translated by John and Bogdana Carpenter)

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