ALICJA KUBERSKA

ALICJA KUBERSKA

BAREFOOT ON THE STUBBLE

I walk barefoot on the stubble.
I turn back time.
Again, I'm a girl with blond braids.
I weave camomiles and cornflowers into my hair.
I know how to place my feet, so as not hurt  them with the sharp thorns .

I walked far.
My heels pierced the ground, the doubts of my mind.
I lost my trust of a child, and my confidence of  being.
I do not know what happened to

My faith in humanity and  my good fortune.

I return from memories.
I look for relief in the song of larks.
Can I find the forgotten dreams?
Regain a slice of the lost paradise?

Somewhere, in the stubble lies the old "I"

Old floor

The strangers live in my old house.

They erase the traces of the former owners.

They settle down and want to become part of the landscape.

The view from the window passed.

After a spreading lime tree only a dry stump remained - a decayed scar.

Bee choirs in the yellow brilliance of flowers trailed off.

The wind dispersed the scent of the May lilacs.

The white phloxes disappeared from the garden.

The walls are bare, the bricks blush.

The grapevine does not peep through the windows.

It won't offer its sweet berries full of syrupy juice on the green leaves.

I see the changes

In different colors the walls blossom

And a new door has been fixed.

Only the time locked in the oak floor creaks  the same.

BOROW

I no longer have a nest here
But I come back, like a swallow,
To places of my childhood.

I wander the sandy hedgerows,
To participate in the mystery of lark song.
I arrange bouquets
Of wild poppies and cornflowers -
And raise up to the clouds.

Old trees, to which I confided my secrets,

Still grow,
Tart, wild cherries
And sweet-scented linden
As once -
I divine the world in the mirror of the lake.
I listen to the waves and the wind.

Apparently nothing has changed.
Only the cemetery hill,
Like a diary of life,
Is ever more clear

DEATH OF A HOME

At the edge of a village,

abandoned wooden cottage grows into the earth,

bowed with the burden of cares,

like a little old woman.

Curious rain peeks in through the hole in the roof.

It waters the slender birches planted

by wind inside the room.

In the windows,

remnants of curtains compete

with thick threads of spider webs.

The moon and the sun

take turns looking at their reflections

in the broken window panes.

Feral raspberries entwine the walls

with a thicket of green arms.

Tall Hollyhocks blush red among rust grasses.

Single pickets outline the grounds of the old garden.

Lush weeds overrule the fertile soil.

Each year, the rotten apple tree bears bitter tasting fruit,

enormous walnut spreads great fingers full of shade.

A once-modest Linden sapling

transformed into an enormous tree

and golden bees quietly humming a song of sweet flowers.

Industrious black ants slowly give the home back to nature.

They carry it piece-by-piece, straight to heaven.

ALICJA KUBERSKA