Each morning is a shock.
I wake alarmed and watch
The birds fly lazily.
It is a blessed day.
A blessed day for me.
Pray for me, Father. Pray for us.
Pray for our bullets and our guns.
Pray for Nil, Szary and Harnaś.
Pray for my wife and for my son.
Pray for the tuber and the grain.
Pray that God will absolve our sins.
Pray that the Russians will feel pain.
Pray for the dead boy. Pray for him.
There is no light beneath the ground.
Brystygier burrows like a rat.
Humer, in absurd eyeglasses,
Infests like filarial worms.
Badecki lurks, that fat old slug.
Śmietański slithers snakily.
The darkness is a thick, dry soil
That fills your insides as you scream.
I have been fighting for so long
I barely think of victory.
It is a haze of jokes and songs
And half-imagined history.
I walk, sometimes, in Krasnystaw
Through streets as quiet as a breath
And think of times that we shall have
In freedom or, my love, in death.