On
the death of Joseph Conrad
Your father, too, was buried with some style.
Greek buskins seemed to clatter in the gloom
As his cortège, stiff booted, mile by mile
Escorted him to freedom and the tomb.
Their rough tongues praised his high nobility.
Their tears were salt and wet. Like epaulettes
They placed their country on him solemnly.
Then they dispersed in battle their regrets.
And now it's you the same wind has sucked down.
Your father in his sleepless exile calls
You in your country's language and your own
From where one lighthouse beam on all seas falls.
Translated by Jerzy Peterkiewicz and Burns Singer
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