Fot. Brykiet Noga.
Clouds hang over the city
It is dark and I can’t get up.
I draw the blanket higher
I disappear, I curl myself up
The air is thick and sticky
Dampness sitting on faces.
A bird perched on a tree gloomily
It is smoothing its feathers lazily
The morning turns into noon
Hours pass in apathy
Sometimes a fly starts buzzing
In the snare of a cobweb
And the sun, high up, so high up
Is shining into pilots’ eyes
It is warming tirelessly
Cold blue spaces
I’m waiting for a wind that will disperse
These dark, swelling curtains.
I will find myself suddenly standing, then
With the sun face to face
The streets – covered with mist –
Are drowning in blind puddles.
Tired, I gaze through the window
I am longing for storms
And the sun, high up, so high up
Is shining into pilots’ eyes
It is warming tirelessly
Cold blue spaces
I’m waiting for the wind that will disperse
The dark, the swelling covers.
I will find myself suddenly standing, then
With the sun face to face
It is dark and I can’t get up.
I draw the blanket higher
I disappear, I curl myself up
The air is thick and sticky
Dampness sitting on faces.
A bird perched on a tree gloomily
It is smoothing its feathers lazily
The morning turns into noon
Hours pass in apathy
Sometimes a fly starts buzzing
In the snare of a cobweb
And the sun, high up, so high up
Is shining into pilots’ eyes
It is warming tirelessly
Cold blue spaces
I’m waiting for a wind that will disperse
These dark, swelling curtains.
I will find myself suddenly standing, then
With the sun face to face
The streets – covered with mist –
Are drowning in blind puddles.
Tired, I gaze through the window
I am longing for storms
And the sun, high up, so high up
Is shining into pilots’ eyes
It is warming tirelessly
Cold blue spaces
I’m waiting for the wind that will disperse
The dark, the swelling covers.
I will find myself suddenly standing, then
With the sun face to face
Krakowski spleen (Cracow spleen),
Olga Jackowska, Marek Jackowski
(transl. muzikum).
Maanam, Krakowski spleen, Nocny patrol, 1983.
Koniec z góralami, pogodynkami i tym podobnymi,
najlepszym miernikiem zmian w pogodzie jest penis.
Lud się mylić nie może.
Będzie burza bo mi się wydłuża.
Idzie dysc bo mi tys.
Będzie grad bo mi padł.
(A kobiety niech też słuchają penisa)
Clouds hang above the city. There's dark and I can't stand up.
I spoof more quilt, disappear, bending in myself.
The air is viscous and dense, the moisture is gathering on faces.
The bird is sadly sitting on tree, cleaning its plumage lazy.
I spoof more quilt, disappear, bending in myself.
The air is viscous and dense, the moisture is gathering on faces.
The bird is sadly sitting on tree, cleaning its plumage lazy.
Clouds hang over the city
It is dark and I can’t get up.
I draw the blanket higher
I disappear, I curl myself up
The morning becomes the noon. The hours pass limp.
Sometimes fly beeps in the spider's web.
But the sun is high above, shining on pilots eyes.
Heating cold blue spaces tirelessly
I'm waiting for the wind, which will chase.
The dark, swirling curtains.
I'll standing then on time.
With the sun face to face.
The streets are wrapped by fog, drowning in blind pools.
I'm looking out the window weary, thinking with longing about the storm.
But the sun is high above, shining on pilots eyes.
Heating cold blue spaces tirelessly
I'm waiting for the wind, which will chase.
The dark, swirling curtains.
I'll standing then on time.
With the sun face to face.
It is dark and I can’t get up.
I draw the blanket higher
I disappear, I curl myself up
The morning becomes the noon. The hours pass limp.
Sometimes fly beeps in the spider's web.
But the sun is high above, shining on pilots eyes.
Heating cold blue spaces tirelessly
I'm waiting for the wind, which will chase.
The dark, swirling curtains.
I'll standing then on time.
With the sun face to face.
The streets are wrapped by fog, drowning in blind pools.
I'm looking out the window weary, thinking with longing about the storm.
But the sun is high above, shining on pilots eyes.
Heating cold blue spaces tirelessly
I'm waiting for the wind, which will chase.
The dark, swirling curtains.
I'll standing then on time.
With the sun face to face.
(transl.?)
PS Przekład "Burzy", W. Szekspira, dokonany przez Piotra Kamińskiego, może wywołać niewielką burzę. Został on uwspółcześniony znacznie, ale czy uwspółcześnienie musi oznaczać wstawianie wulgaryzmów, jak kur.iszon czy skur.ysyn? Nie jestem delikatesem i sobie czasem kurwa powiem, ale to już jest przesada.
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