Polska Wersja


It is true, our tribe is similar to bees.  
It gathers honey of wisdom, carries it, seals it in combs.  
I can roam for hours  
Through the labyrinth of the Main Library, floor by floor.
But yesterday, seeking words of masters and prophets
I wandered into high regions
That almost no one visits.  
I pulled down volumes and could decipher nothing,
For the letters had faded and vanished from the pages.
Woe! I exclaimed -- so it comes to this?
For you, venerable ones, your beards and your wigs,
For those nights spent by candles, the grief of your wives?  
A message that might have saved us is thus silenced forever?

At home that day they were making preserves.  
And your dog, sleeping by the fire, would wake up,
Yawn and look at you, as if knowing.


photo: Judyta Papp

Berkeley, 1993

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