Far away,
behind the line of the horizon
at a vertical and flaming angle
like a golden pound the sun has drown
neither on the heads nor tails in turning tangle.
Your return
has bended like a question
in the clouds above the polish waves.
And the dews as tears have set in vespers
like my verses in the evening chains.
Here the sunsets’re
pale-yellow and scarlet
under the tremendous quartz bright moon.
Why do waves kiss rocks and sandy carpets,
if you cannot come to see me soon?