Róża

[Wakss]

Dried rose lying between the bricks,
Black leaves can only see the dark,
Maybe sometimes rays of the sun,
Like chains of fire born in hell.
 

The rose wants it all, and even more,
From air, from blue eyes of the sky,
But it has no light of its own,
Nothing special, nothing bright.
 

I have nothing that I could give her,
But I want to give my skin and blood,
I want to give her my time — even years,
Even if it’s worth less than nothing.