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greenstormThis is what language is for. This, and the pope poem.
THE BICYCLE
once
forgotten by tourists
a bicycle joined
a herd
of mountain goats
with its splendidly turned
silver horns
it became
their leader
with its bell
it warned them
of danger
with them
it partook
in romps
on the snow covered
glade
the bicycle
gazed from above
on people walking;
with the goats
it fought
over a goat,
with a bearded buck
it reared up at eagles
enraged
on its back wheel
it was happy
though it never
nibbled at grass
or drank
from a stream
until once
a poacher
shot it
tempted
by the silver trophy
of its horns
and then
above the Tatras was seen
against the sparkling
January sky
the angel of death erect
slowly
riding to heaven
holding the bicycle's
dead horns.
By Jerzy Harasymowicz
(originally published in Polish)
THE BICYCLE
once
forgotten by tourists
a bicycle joined
a herd
of mountain goats
with its splendidly turned
silver horns
it became
their leader
with its bell
it warned them
of danger
with them
it partook
in romps
on the snow covered
glade
the bicycle
gazed from above
on people walking;
with the goats
it fought
over a goat,
with a bearded buck
it reared up at eagles
enraged
on its back wheel
it was happy
though it never
nibbled at grass
or drank
from a stream
until once
a poacher
shot it
tempted
by the silver trophy
of its horns
and then
above the Tatras was seen
against the sparkling
January sky
the angel of death erect
slowly
riding to heaven
holding the bicycle's
dead horns.
By Jerzy Harasymowicz
(originally published in Polish)
