To... by Adam Zagajewski

"In my defense I have only silence, dew on the grass, a nightingale among the branches."

To...
by Adam Zagajewski

Madam Death, I am writing to request
that you kindly take into consideration
an extension of my liability to
the institution headed by you
for so many centuries. You, Madam,
are a master, a violent sport,
a delicate ax, the pope, velvet lips,
scissors. I don't flatter you. I beg.
I don't demand. In my defense I have
only silence, dew on the grass, a nightingale
among the branches. You forgive it,
its long tenure in the leaves of one aspen
after another, drops of eternity, grams
of amazement, and the sleepy complaints of the poor poets
whose passports you didn't renew.

Published in Without End by Adam Zagajewski (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2003). Translated by Clare Cavanagh