Up where the knight sleeps in his dream of granite bone
embedded in thick cloud and mountain mist, his
rocky armour clean of trees, content to be alone
below him in the valley fountain
Zakopane rattles on
Tatra's peaks cut through sky into the sun, as snow
slips away from their knife-edge and we let the story go
that he’ll awake to fight in Poland's hour of need
Sleep on, old knight, these busy sounds of Zakopane
seem to say. Poland’s fought her main fights now;
All her battles done.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem