translated, from the Polish, by Justyna Kostkowska
For reasons unclear,
and in circumstances unknown,
the Ideal ceased to be content with itself.
It could have gone on and on with no end,
carved away from darkness, chiseled out of light,
in its dreamy gardens above.
So why on Earth did it seek excitement
in the bad company of matter?
Why did it need enthusiasts
among the non-starters, born losers,
with no prospects for eternity?
Wisdom on crutches
with a thorn deep in its heel?
Harmony torn apart
by stormy waters?
with aesthetically displeasing intestines
—why with a shadow
if it used to be without?
There had to be a reason,
inconsequential as it seemed,
but it won’t be betrayed even by the Naked Truth,
busily sifting through
its earhtly attire.
And to top it all off, Plato, those intolerable poets,
the gust-borne shavings off the monuments,
scraps of the grand highland Silence…