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Juliusz
Słowacki
Give me a mile of land - or even less.
A piece of turf would serve me, friends, if there
You placed a man, one man whose fearlessness
Had freed him, soul and body, from despair.
Within his brain I'd work my spells to show
A statue with two faces, both aglow.
Give me a planet smaller than the moon,
A golden squadron tinkling from its tail,
And let it skim the forests, let its croon
Be hallowed by one patriot's dying wail
Then shall I fetch unknown angelic things
And stand, wings open, on that star that sings.
When I, my friends, implore my God to grant
Me a poor country and the right to fight,
I seem to see our chivalries aslant
The thunder of our enemies in flight.
Hot in pursuit, I reach the stars : then sleek
Sneers of sharp light ask crudely what I seek.
Stars, you are cold small Satans made of clay,
Intense with disbelief. And I, half-crazed,
Am broken by your hate. Dreams make me say
That Poland burns already: and I have raised
Fountains of flame to prove my country could.
But all that burns is my own heart - like wood.
Translated by Jerzy Peterkiewicz and Burns Singer
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