poems
Feliks Konarski
They craved the very roots,
Desired the furrow's groove swallow the top soil deep
So that nothing, no surface remained;
No linking of her past -
No past - no history
Of her and of this nation
Whose prediluvian line was nurtured here
Through countless generations.
They sought to smooth over the marks,
The tiniest traces of dust.
Disfigured, drove, dispelled,
Divided the heart from the head.
But one granule they quite overlooked -
The grit of the Land itself.