The First Snow
He climbed onto the tower top. Brisk, frosty air surrounded him. The landscape down the hill was covered with mist.
Winter morning in Himring.
And the first snow.
The floor was already well sprinkled with delicate snowflakes.
He wrapped his thick long shawl tighter around his shoulders and slowly put a bare foot on the snow. At first he felt nothing, his skin was still warmed with the bath. He followed with his other foot, nothing. A step forward. Still nothing. Silence. Calm.
Slowly he walked to the middle of the turret. Now he was starting to feel the chill and dampness under his feet but still it was not unpleasant.
Snowflakes were lazily drifting before his eyes. He wanted to reach out, to catch them, to hold them in his hand, but... He had only one hand. The attempts to hold his shawl with the stump nearly ended with the garment falling. All he could do was to reach out with the stump or...
Put his face towards it, as towards the Sun.
He closed his eyes. The first snowflakes gentl
Nad rozlanym mlekiemBezwenna noc ma smoły czerń,
I lepkość jej,
I gorąc jej.
Paraliż wenny jest jak klej,
Nie wygrasz, więc oswój się zeń.
Bezwenny dzban właśnie się zbił,
A pełny był,
A wielki był.
Zapobiec chciałeś z całych sił,
Lecz rozlał się bezwenny płyn.
Powodzi nie zrzucisz na karb
Ni wodnych farb.
Lecz tonąc we łzach szarp się, szarp,
Bo życie to bezwenny skarb.