Juliusz
Słowacki
When any poet's brightest glory shines
His words construct a statue from his fears
Centuries will not wipe away these lines
Nor dry their tears.
While you go off into a distant land
I'm left alone to watch my exile dribble
Slowly away toward death; or, pen in hand,
To sit and scribble.
Translated by Jerzy Peterkiewicz and Burns Singer
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