By Adam Zagajewski.
A blackbird sat on the TV antenna and sang a gentle, jazzy tune. Whom have you lost, I asked, what do you mourn? I'm taking leave of those who've gone, the blackbird said, I'm parting with the day (its eyes and lashes), I mourn a girl who lived in Thrace, you wouldn't know her. I'm sorry for the willow, killed by frost. I weep, since all things pass and alter and return, but always in a different form. My narrow throat can barely hold the grief, despair, delight, and pride occasioned by such sweeping transformations. A funeral cortege passes up ahead, the same each evening, there, on the horizon's thread. Everyone's there, I see them all and bid farewell. I see the swords, hats, kerchiefs, and bare feet, guns, blood, and ink. They walk slowly and vanish in the river mist, on the right bank. I say goodbye to them and you and the light, and then I greet the night, since I serve her-- and black silks, black powers.
