In the misty memory of the ancients...
Another long forgotten world
Hidden like in a large cave of pits,
It's a priceless treasure.
full of proud, haughty princes,
But devoted to their peoples,
Sacrificed to vast lands throughout their lives,
inherited from the fathers' ancestors of the will,
Full of chrobrys, warrior wars,
Guarding mighty, vast castles,
Listening to the next orders,
Voivodes faithfully devoted to their prince,
The worshiping forgotten food gods,
In unbridled groves of comfort,
They offer their sacrifices to the spirits of the ancestors,
To simplify the aid from the afterlife,
Full of cloud-eyed young men,
They set distant to meet their large adventures,
Hiding in the woods of the black and white,
Those who lay in wait for the wanderers,
Full of smiling beautiful girls,
With their delicate slender hands,
From the field of the flowers making the flowers,
For a heart-chosen man to choice it up willingly,
With worship of those who sow their fields,
Though the mediocre suffer, and the flesh of the poor,
Despite all the odds of adversity,
Of the steadfast and the spirit of the rich,
Full of forgotten wonders,
Unfathomable mysteries and large secrets
Those who erstwhile lived in our lands,
Slavs, Lugis, Wandals or Celts...
In the misty memory of the ancients...
Light-haired children bathed in pure streams
Among the joyous laughter and fun
Frequent crossovers,
Sometimes they looked after them with a caring eye,
Sensitive, loving mothers,
Colorful stories
Heeded as a kid from food and witch,
About their great-grandmother's distant childhood,
Cursed in extraordinary stories,
Another generation of grandchildren whispered,
To sleep before your eyelids close...
When not far from the vast castles,
At the gatherings called,
Proud tribes, gray-haired elders,
She advised on the close and far future,
When close the green meadows,
They did their large storks,
And on cloudless skies, arrogant eagle,
With wings wide open, she was floating...
When far distant in the wild,
In vast forests and borahs,
On a vegetable covered in bushes,
The bold bow-cut huntsman was tightening,
When far distant in the impersonal thickets,
Knowing the mysteries of the witch's nature,
They brewed their secret potions,
They cast and performed their charms...
So in the shadow of the large oaks,
There were more of our forebears,
The fates intertwined in the next generations,
The stormy past of the settlement and will subdue...
In the misty memory of the ancients...
In the gloomy pagan gontines,
As she burned the gods of prey,
So that prosperity and abundant yields may be rewarded,
And the mysterious light of fire,
The interiors of many shingles lit,
Bringing back memories from distant years,
Over the coming future prompting meditation,
He's been reasoning about the old food sometimes,
If he's here in a 1000 years,
Or in the coming generations,
He survives the pride of his people,
And the unspeakable sparking stars,
The mysterious guardians of the night sky
In his meditations, they repeated to him,
When they blinked, they shouted,
Though ancients knew countless secrets,
Those whom they jealously kept from men,
Images to come,
Even before them they were hidden,
So with long moon nights,
They wondered along with Celtic druids,
Along with the Slavic feedings, their guesses were lingering,
In what direction will humanity go,
But the stars of the angels were not brought forth.
No druid from the forest spirits,
They did not betray to the reapers statues of pagan gods,
The future of secrets is coming,
Though thousands of years ago,
The bodies of the old men covered the earth
A slow-flowing story,
In time, she answered their spirits...
In the misty memory of the ancients...
Every small dewdrop,
She was covering her own world,
Fractured as bread,
And these thousands of tiny worlds,
Cursed in all part of grass
He hid the large one,
The unknown planet of ancient times...
And present the unheard stones whisper,
Every pleasant summertime evening,
About that another forgotten world,
Still the complicated tales of his...
Where old druids, grey beards,
The shining moons of silver,
It's like they're sunk in the ancient abyss,
Like in the lakes of the youths,
Where are the bare shining swords,
The rising sun,
They were bouncing back the arrogant princes,
War triumphs as a forerunner...
And though they were conquered, burned down,
There's no trace left today,
Their memory was preserved by the earth,
On which it rose for hundreds of years...
And all these priceless paintings,
They kept in themselves the ancients,
Before each coming age,
Like fine treasures guarding them jealously,
To the coming centuries,
Like a robber's looting expedition,
To the distant ancients,
Big secrets didn't rip them off...
(Prophet before the Battle, Józef Ryszkiewicz, 1890)
