On my people’s nape’s one dragon ill,
One fist about their throat is twirled;
And from my verses one dactyl,
One sorrow stares into the world.
SILESIAN FORESTS
Thou art as I, Silesian Forests!
Sorrow clings to thy trunks and crests;
You look depressed and you look severe,
Just as my thoughts and my songs appear.
Spine falls from thee in the night and the mist,