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Cyprian
Norwid
A woman, parents, brothers, even God
Can still be loved, but those who love them need
Some physical vestige, shadow: I have none.
Cracow is silent now that its hewn stone
Has lost what tongue it had; no banner of
Mazovian linen has been stained to prove
Art obstinate ; the peasant's houses tilt ;
The native ogives of our churches wilt;
Barns are too long ; our patron saints are bored
With being statues ; partitioned and ignored,
Form, from the fields to steeples, can't command
One homespun wand or touch one angel's hand.
Translated by Jerzy Peterkiewicz and Burns Singer
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