Try to praise the mutilated world.⠀
Remember June's long days,⠀
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.⠀
The nettles that methodically overgrow⠀
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.⠀
You must praise the mutilated world.⠀
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;⠀
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,⠀
while salty oblivion awaited others.⠀
You've seen the refugees going nowhere,⠀
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.⠀
You should praise the mutilated world.⠀
Remember the moments when we were together⠀
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.⠀
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.⠀
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn⠀
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.⠀
Praise the mutilated world⠀
and the gray feather a thrush lost,⠀
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes⠀
and returns.⠀
—Adam Zagajewski, (1943-2021)
Translated from the Polish by Clare Cavanagh
