Psalm about a Severed Head by Tadeusz Nowak

O poetry my poetry o poetry
a farmer rubs against nothing while a whore slumbers
May comes out into the first grass with scythe
and a bull wakes the earth with a horn

And in the forest a head sleeps severed
and the forest poppy falls into its eyes
and pregnant animals sleep
and the linden tree strains milk on it

head and trunk can’t fuse
lips can not say amen
and they fall into kneaded dough
and the sacrement is all in reds

You’d go to it hobbling along
you’d sew it with a birch thread
as ordained by custom and tradition:
the sowing sifter of eternity

Delightedly, you’d go and attach
head and trunk with a handful of clay
so that the livid village rooster
would not crow three times on a harvest morning

So that on our rye bread
of sleep cherries would fall
milk wold strain itself and so that
the severed head would grow together in a dream

O poetry my poetry o poetry
a farmer rubs against nothing while a whore slumbers
May comes out into the first grass with scythe
and a bull wakes the earth with a horn

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