Still you’re grasping personal happiness by the hair
Stashing away in just about any jar
Keeping a journal which means a monument to yourself
That’s why the air feeds you scantily
Invisible hands don’t guide you
What is grand won’t come against your will
All this ache in vain—cause you wouldn’t die
If you can’t let go of yourself
How could you gain everything


My translation of Jeszcze by Polish poet and priest Jan Twardowski

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