Edward Stachura - Pejzaż

He puts the horizon to sleep in the corner of your mouth and now return the clouds and a sun,the gentler peninsulas
ask for the soft burrows of your eyes on the den.

In the away countries,the white hands of monks kill young fallow,and on a stone floors of they houses they spread the soft leathers,for you one leg.

In the morning when you lift your neck lazily,the hands of the thiefs offer you a Ivory combs,and the most beautiful
horses,they run in to the glass.