You know, I think more and more often.

by Tadeusz Borowski

You know, I think more and more often

that I should go back.

Maybe I’ll meet you. And happiness?

Happiness is being sad together.

So I look through the moonlit window

and listen.

Nothing. A breeze stirs somewhere.

Alone among the leaves - the moon.

Like a golden wheel it rolls

above the windblown leaves.

Such moons, only paler,

shone over the Wisla.

Even the Big Dipper on its course

stops in a tree at midnight,

just like at home. But why here?

Truly, I don’t know.

What’s here? Longing and sleepless nights,

unknown streets and somebody’s verse.

I live here as a nobody:

a Displaced Person.

I think of you. I know I must leave.

Perhaps we can return to our past,

but I know neither what youth will be like

nor where you are.

But I’m yours or no one’s

forever. Listen,

listen, read this poem

if somewhere you are alive.