A R T S
POETRY
written by Martin Stepek
I lay down on the shores of Pahlevi
I lay down on the shores of Pahlevi and wept
My body could not stop shaking
From the dysentery
My emaciated frame of bones hugged the sand in gratitude
As my frail loose skin blew in the sea breeze
And the salt water flowed over my filthy remains
How I shuddered with convulsive tears
And delight at the gentle warmth of the sun
and the coolness of the sea and the wind
And I didn’t care if I lived or died
I was so very happy
To be no longer in the Soviet Union
Free to die free, at last
If not to survive
As if that were possible
But no, to die was enough,
Free, in the caring hands
Of the British, the Persians,
And oh – how I’m crying again –
My Polish soldiers,
My own folk.
Look at them, in proud uniform
And health, their skin tight
And love on their faces
As they look to help me up.
I’m sorry I am crying so much,
To be helped by my people
And they so well
Who only weeks before must
Have been, like me, rags and bones
Fit only for the grave
And yet, look, they positively shine health
Perhaps, oh don’t get excited,
It may be too much, I may die of hope
That I might live yet
That I might live
And even feel again.
Look at me, I’m in a state,
Beyond control.
The irony. For days I had no water
Now I’m pouring it out of my eyes.
And orange juice! The British bring me orange juice
On a tray my God, a tray.
I have not seen a tray for..
For, my, I don’t know the years any more
Since Poland, since home
Since mama and papa,
Oh mama.