Adam Ziemianin (1948) tłum. Aniela Gregorek

frost blushes the glass

they have seen it so many times
they don’t notice anymore
the mountain keeps itself straight
their lives bend toward the ground

it’s late evening
on the table there is a pension check
a very open letter to their son
and a game of solitaire half-started

she says:
turn on the radio
maybe they will say something
he responds:
what for? I already know what I need

they look throught the window
and winter moves very slowly for  them
behind the window are carolers
but among them only Death is real