His head would ache up to this day, foreboding autumn rains.
“Well, let it be so,” said Peter, barely understanding what he meant. “Let it be...”
At the roadside there was standing a coach. The moustached coachman sat there, bored, sipping from his flask from time to time. Still higher, to the left hand, where heather was fading under dark firs, a graveyard began. Near one of the crosses, around the grave there were sitting people. Peter recognized the company officer with his wife, the mage and young Karolinka. Also there was a very old man dressed in dark blue – the colours of the Opolie house. The old man was stooping heavily, leaning forward. All the people didn’t move, looking at a single point in front of them. Thus would sit players absorbed in a complicated game.
Peter could swear he knew what game was lying on the grave in front of the amazing five.
The “Triple Nornscoll”.
“ ‘I have a presentiment,’ said the mage, getting up. ‘Today, with the God’s help...’ ”
“I’ll write a song,” Peter Sliadek stopped. He was looking at the people occupied with the game, as if hoping they could hear him, digress, stop racking their tormented hearts with the dream of correcting – the most wonderful and the most deceitful dream in the world. “I give you my word, I’ll write a song. A real one. You won’t get angry if I sing it everywhere? I’m seldom allowed to visit castles...”
He threw his lute farther on his shoulder and moved along the Kichora road.
Whistling “Hoy, clover of five leaves.”
The Qasida of Doubts.
O, my crown is turning rusty,
My defence I cannot trust to,
Nights are poisoned with disgusting
Cawing of a crow.
From a tree a leaf is falling,
For my soul, as if, it’s calling,
And my soul will answer, moaning:
“You! Arise and go!”
I’m a king – my throne is swaying,
I’m a void, I am the aching
Of a heart that’s slowly failing,
Shining of a coin,
I’m dead lovers in Verona,
At a wedding I am foreign,
I am standing in an open
Field – I am alone.
I’m alone and not a fighter,
While the safety is in numbers.
Where’s at least one friend? – I’m howling,
Save my soul, o Lord.
Let me be green grass that’s growing,
Let me be a leaf that’s falling,
Sound of people who are talking,
Grey hair of the old.
With eternal peace bestow me,
Just a little of it show me,
Lace of curtain, gently flowing,
Flowers’ scent at dawn.
Give the shining of a lightning...
Be it easy life or striving –
All the same the pain is biting
At my very core.
At dark midnight it will wake me,
Weakness into power making –
So inscrutable and shaky
Is the way I go.
Somewhere, juvenile or ancient,
In a crowd or by myself there,
Through my life I’ll leaf then, pensive,
Being slave or lord.
Flame of tournament I’ll be there,
Armour’s ornament I’ll be there,
And from wisdom’s spring I’ll drink there,
Strict and all alone.
Cough and pain, my joints are aching
And the tiredness is waiting...
“Rise!” I’ll never..! “Rise!” I’ll never..!
“Rise!” ...I will... “And go.”
