By Adam Zagajewski
December, herald of destruction,
takes you on a long walk
through the black torso of trees
and leaves scorched by the autumn’s fire,
as if saying: see what’s left
of your secrets, your treasures,
the febrile trill of little birds,
the promises of summer months.
Your dreams have been dissected,
the blackbirds’ song now has a rationale,
plants’ corpses adorn the herbariums.
Only the laboratory’s hard nut remains.
Don’t listen: they may take everything,
but they can’t have your ignorance,
they’ll leave your mysteries, won’t uncover
your third homeland.
Don’t listen, the holidays approach,
and frozen January, snow’s white paper.
What you await is just now being born.
The one you’re seeking will begin to sing.