WINTER, BEFORE THE WAR
by Waclaw Potocki (Polish, 1625-1696)
The frost bit deep. When heavy guns were dragged
Across a marsh no inch of bogland sagged.
The dubious fords raised solid crystal beams.
A glass bridge spanned the deeper parts of streams.
The snow was shameless in its secret keeps
Though clouds had dumped it carelessly in heaps;
But where frost parched it, sparkling silks were spun
And polished lilies to receive the sun.
Someone to whom the war means nothing yet
Glides on a sledge, its runners barely wet,
So light it seems: one horse has leopard spots
And one's hawk-mottled, bird-like as it trots.
A hunter with his hounds treks through the snow.
But, soaking toast in beer by the hearth's glow,
An old man sits. He doesn't want to drive
Off in a sledge. The Spring will soon arrive
And his death with it. Now, since his teeth have gone,
He sucks soaked bread. If any man lives on
Until his youngest grand-daughter gives birth,
This is the last delight he'll find on earth.
In short: the sun reached Capricorn -- no more --
And Winter fell from heaven to this hard floor.
(translated by Jerzy Peterkiewicz and Burns Singer)
