You are simple and proud, like a reed over a riverbank. You are rough and fragrant, like thyme laid out in a meadow. Your name—a round apple—crunches in your teeth with fresh youth —you are the boy from London's story: with air, water, sun, bound by the firmest covenent, with strength and beauty, you are the bridge that binds the sky to the earth. I look to you and falter, or will I believe in happiness? Perhaps, like you, life is simple, lush and full of bliss. You don't know the charm of intricate words, braided poems... You don't know the taste of thoughts that steal sleep from my eyelids... You are a world that is one smile wider than my world, but also deeper by a tear; the one who flies like a stone—to the bottom. You are the green shore to which I swim at night and which I leave by day like a dark and silent wave— —Don't believe appearances! Different stars flicker above us; it is another twilight that silverly descends upon me... I shall not rest in your arms, as in the branches of a faithful tree; I shall fly over you like a wild migrating bird—sailing on the wind... Do not look up... the way before me is bleak—grey sand obscures my eyes— You are the one I long for—you are the one I will miss.
Henryka Łazowertówna (1899-1942) (Translated by Prontobard, 2022)