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Tomasz Alen Kopera.

Who knows the edges of the soul?
Who has even glimpsed its surface?
Neither the breath blown by stealthy bellows
into the abysmal depth of its unknown netherworld,
where not a single eye reaches.
The mineral crust of its layers,
the dense resin of its grounds,
the exquisite wake cleaving the waters
on the ocean of its gulfs,
swirling always, swirling.
We see its ships loaded
with fires and frosts,
with its sails swollen of days and wrecks
unfolded in profound, limpid notes,
towards such a remote distance
that not even the slightest thought sees through.
There throbs, untouched, the enigma of a life,
the shivering of a look,
the unpronounceable word before a sweet caress,
a pain frozen at the threshold
of its mysteries.
In the tremulous chrysalis of its bosom
secrets voices beam such a thickness silence
that neither the highest angels
nor omniscient, everlasting gods
can hear.
Even the fiercest hate sinks its frail roots
of primal terror into the fathomless caves
of its fountains,
and there they drink, trembling, thirsty of some love,
of some childhood dream that was shattered,
and forgotten of itself it seeps, unredeemed,
through the inscrutable surface of the soul.