Agnieszka Kuciak
Playing truant on Sunday (Wagary w święto)
The devil can get into the very best of us,
even the Lord himself, as every child knows.
So in running away from him to the lake
our motive was fear more than reason. Even
while swimming we still had our hands folded
and our heads bowed low. The taste on our palates
of heaven? the clouds of judgment? a gulp
of the water level? would remain bitter.
Our underage souls seemed to fizz
in the water gently - like dissoluble
orangeade. What dissolute children we were!
We deserved a good, sound thrashing:
an apocalypse, or a burning bush.

Translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones

Hosted by Onyx Sp. z o. o. Copyright © 2007 - 2018  Fundacja Literatury w Internecie