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.