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A Russian Tale

The tsar, our beloved daddy got old, very old.
He was even unable to strangle a dove with his own hands.
He kept on sitting on the throne, gold and cold,
only his beard kept growing,
to the floor and more.
 
Someone else ruled the country, nobody knew who.
The curious people were peeping thorough the palace windows,
but the crooked tsar obscured the windows with gallows,
so only those executed were able to see a bit.
 
Finally, the tsar, our beloved daddy, died for good.
The bells rang, but no one put out the body.
The tsar glued to the throne.
His legs jumbled with those of the throne,
his hands deeply rooted into the armrests.
There was no way to disconnect him from the throne
and to bury him with a golden throne - wouldn't be wise.
 

The power of taste

It did not take any great character
our refusal dissent and persistence
we had a scrap of necessary courage
but essentially it was a matter of taste
Yes taste
which has bers of soul and the gristle of conscience
 
Who knows if we’d been better more prettily tempted
sent women pink and at as wafers
or fantastic creatures out of Hieronymous Bosch
but what did hell look like in those days
a mud pit a cutthroat’s alley a barracks
called a Palace of Justice
a moonshine Mephisto in a Lenin jacket
sent Aurora’s grandchildren into the eld
boys with potato-eaters’ faces
very ugly girls with red hands
 
Truly their rhetoric was just too shoddy
(Marcus Tullius turned in his grave)
chains of tautologies a few ailing concepts
torturers’ dialectics reasoning without grace
syntax devoid of the beauty of the subjunctive
 
So in fact aesthetics can be an aid in life
one shouldn’t neglect the study of beauty
Before we assent we must examine closely
architectural forms rhythms of drum and fe
ocial colors the homely rituals of burial
 
Our eyes and ears refused to submit
our princely senses chose proud exile
It did not take any great character
 
we had a scrap of necessary courage
but in essence it was a matter of taste
Yes taste
which tells you to walk out wince spit out your scorn
even if for that your body’s precious capital the head
would roll
 

A Matter of Time

Let's suppose that some Mr. “X”
years ago has harmed you.
Let's suppose that he had a mean trap,
but a lot of capabilities.
Let's suppose you still remember it
and now the time has come
to finish him gracefully
saving your own face.
 
Against the blow, that hits like a thunderbolt,
no umbrella will shelter you.
After all in natural world nothing can get lost,
everything’s just a matter of time.
 
Let's suppose that this villain and boor
soon smashes his head against the wall
or he ties a very strong rope
to hang himself.
Let's suppose that before the Lord
calls him to the Great Assize,
you only helped him here
to understand his own mistakes.
 
Against the blow, that hits like a thunderbolt,
no umbrella will shelter you.
After all in natural world nothing can get lost,
everything’s just a matter of time.
 
Copyright®: Andrzej Pałka.

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