Krzysztof Kamil Baczyński
White Magic

Standing still by the mirror
Barbara, hands in her hair
fills body of glass, but clearer
with silver whispers of air.

And then like a jug - with light
she's filled in her glaze, and soon
she takes in stars of the night
and whitish powders of moon.

Through body's prism ashiver
in music of sparkly white
weasels will softly slither
sleep’s nappy leaves of delight.

Bears will be bathed in its ice,
in brightness of northern star,
as will a mischief of mice
rush through in a noisy spar.

Until in her milky fill,
she sinks to reluctant sleep,
as time melodious grows still
bright-lit cascade in the deep.

So is this Barbara’s frame
silver. And crouching within
soft weasel of silence tame
by hand of invisible sheen.  

(Translated by: Witold Wojtaszko)