Ode to the sun – poem

If at noon in December I look at the Argentinean sky, I swear at you,

my eyes shut fast by your ignominious intensity,

but if I do the same in Poland, I bless you,

and extend my face towards your caressing rays.

Nowhere is truer the phrase: No one is a prophet in their own land, you

Mayan slayer, Egyptian benefactor.

You’re just a tourist in Poland, your power has no enforcement here.

But I do believe you to be great, not god like great,

but beyond faith, as if a big alien saw us

miserable earthlings, waddling in darkness, and commiserating with us,

he lit up a torch, so we could watch our steps.

And they say evil people can’t sleep at night,

but I don’t believe that. I think they sleep like babies,

carelessly, oblivious to foreign pain.

The ones who don’t sleep are their victims.

So, my friend, can I call you that? Please shine on the righteous,

and pass over the evil, let them sleep in darkness

and with the horrendous certainty that when they wake up

they will uselessly open their shutters, draw their curtains

because they won’t find you anywhere.



I'm a writer born in Argentina, but currently living in Poland. I work as an English and French teacher, translator and copywriter.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.