(Johannes R. Becher 1891-1958)
With the rest of strength it raised and stayed Sticking out from snow, a clenched hand Only it is visible. A hand without flesh threatens It throws a curse, it is protrudes, and remembers
It lasts obstinately, pushed with the rest of strength And you would say, looking at the clenched hand, That the dead fingers caught something in the air And closed, to hold it tight
When stiffness leaves from sprig The palm will open and show its inside And or new seed will fall on the ground. Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa. |
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