poem Created by GoToSlawek.org Pictures: E.P. and Sławek Music: Debussy Copyrights GoToSlawek.org 2004

Where the vineyards, where the sweet-scented oranges thrive You, my domestic simple from Zakopane pine Taken away from your mother and sisters’ race Stand, an orphan, in the unfamiliar place. Such a pleasant guest to my eye you appear As we both experience the same decree. I too was taken on the pilgrimage far away And my life’s time is running in the foreign land.

Where the vineyards, where the sweet-scented oranges thrive You, my domestic simple from Zakopane pine Taken away from your mother and sisters’ race Stand, an orphan, in the unfamiliar place.

Such a pleasant guest to my eye you appear As we both experience the same decree. I too was taken on the pilgrimage far away And my life’s time is running in the foreign land.

Why, though attended with much care, You don’t grow taller, you lose your strength? Here you have earlier sun and the spring’s dew too And yet your branches fade and droop.

Why, though attended with much care, You don’t grow taller, you loose your strength? Here you have earlier sun and the spring’s dew too And yet your branches fade and droop. You wither, Shrivel, saddened amidst flourishing gardens And there’s no life for you without your Motherland, My faithful tree!

You wither, Shrivel, saddened amidst flourishing gardens And there’s no life for you without your Motherland, My faithful tree!

Exile, longing you will not endure. After a few more autumn and winter downpours Lifeless you’ll fall! Buried in the foreign soil. My tree, Will I be luckier than you?

Where the vineyards, where the sweet-scented oranges thrive You, my domestic simple from Zakopane pine Taken away from your mother and sisters’ race Stand, an orphan, in the unfamiliar place. Such a pleasant guest to my eye you appear As we both experience the same decree. I too was taken on the pilgrimage far away And my life’s time is running in the foreign land. Why, though attended with much care, You don’t grow taller, you lose your strength? Here you have earlier sun and the spring’s dew too And yet your branches fade and droop. You wither, Shrivel, saddened amidst flourishing gardens And there’s no life for you without your Motherland, My faithful tree! Exile, longing you will not endure. After a few more autumn and winter downpours Lifeless you’ll fall! Buried in the foreign soil. My tree, Will I be luckier than you? poem written by Stefan Witwicki (1801 – 1847) Translated from the Polish by Danuta E. Kosk-Kosicka