ELIZA SEGIET - POEMS (TRANSLATED BY ARTUR KOMOTER)

Eliza Segiet – graduate with a Master's Degree in Philosophy, completed postgraduate studies in Cultural Knowledge, Philosophy, Arts and Literature at Jagiellonian University, as well as Film and Television Production in Lodz.
Torn between poetry and drama. Likes to look into the clouds, but keeps both feet on the ground. Her heart is close to the thought of Schopenhauer: "Ordinary people merely think how they shall 'spend' their time; a man of talent tries to 'use' it". 
Translated by Artur Komoter

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Music of the Word

​Beautiful is the world
painted with the music of the word.
Like
a butterfly passing by,
who for a moment
intoxicates with the colouring of its body,
stopping
the breath of those thirsty for beauty.
Its sensual dance
is freedom of imagination.
 

And the word?
The word can be
the music
that can be heard
when it is quiet,
and yet silent.
 

Gardens of Silence

​In the gardens of silence
the words sound silence.
Those longing, desiring
do not whisper even from afar
It's good that they scream within it.
Maybe it heard them before,
maybe it dreamed about them before?
 

Sunflowers

In the head was born a garden,
which still awaits for the smell.
What a beautiful one,
flowered in a harmony of colours.
Behind the enchanted gate,
open to sensation
stand
two drooping heads
of ripe sunflowers.
Bowing down likely
to love drifting in the distance.
The wind
shut the enchanted gates,
feeling insufficient.
It knew
that the garden can be made up,
and love
has to be felt.

Shape of Love  

​She painted him with thoughts,
she even felt a touch.
Silky hands
drawing on her lips
the shape of love.
She was with him,
probably
at the end of the earth
pulsating like…
like life.
The earth showered
with salty pearls.
 

At her Dream Beach,
she heard the waves
talking to the waves,
heard him saying:
I'm fine with you.
Did he lie?
Did they lie?
 

It's nothing
that he was just imaginary,
but
still possible.
For her, everything and nothing.
 

Land of Awakening

​Whirling memories,
going to winter sleep.
Paved leaves
stroking
the grass still green.
 

Pity that on the surface
can only be seen
bare,
swinging branches,
chilled and awaiting –
for the rays of life.
 

Rays –
to the land of awakening:
fields of grain,
smell of meadows
and in the Summer Dream
of memorised faces.
 

And in the summer?
Awakened by the May sun
old oaks and birches,
– like every day –
will be able to look at themselves
in the Green Pond.