From Wet Eyes an Oak Grows | final version
translated poem:
(IPOGS, Walls) Z mokrych oczu wyrasta dąb.
-
Przemek Trenk
From wet eyes an oak grows.
The one cutting the ruins
of longing. Torches went out
long ago. Only cold glass
left in the hands.
The one cutting the ruins
of longing. Torches went out
long ago. Only cold glass
left in the hands.
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