Z XVI-wiecznym portretem trumiennym – rozmowa [English translation]

Don’t look reproachfully at us prideful bundle of mischief,

Please open your heart for children of your children.

Since your famous times a lot has changed,

So It’s a pity to bother Your Grace about it.

We don’t know much about you, who raided Turk,

Chosen Hungarian for king and trampled Swed,

But you also watched this, so chosen rule

wouldn’t snatch something that you didn’t gave it willingly.

And you didn’t gave it right threaten you with wood

Because before God, you don’t want Jesuit for envoy,

So it could send you to that battlefields,

Where blood and wounds – yours, but somebody else’s profits.

And we, every time, before someone

Another one – on our kneels;

We have gone far

From power of Your Grace.

Still in new manors

We hang about at the wrong time;

We love honors,

We don’t know honor.

Glance at us more gently with your clear eye

That saw The Gold Age of your Kingdom,

Instead of scolding us from your coffin by artist’s affair,

That there are times of colossus and times of mediocrity.

You are boasting Rome law that’s based on power:

Hand grabs gold belt, curls moustache;

But consideration – It’s power’s privilege

Born from reason of your sixteenth century.

Why didn’t you teach your sons the thing that you benefited yourself from,

That hat warms mind, so It wouldn’t disappear silently?

Quickly one after another – envoy or extra -

Truckled with mind and thought with butt.

And we – for just a shoddy word

We stand on our back pawns;

And we in blizzard with bare heads

We are looking for our own hat.

In this, what remained of domains

In heritage after Your Graces -

We lack wisdom,

We love “wise” slogans.

Look at us how you like, prideful bundle of mischief,

There is a lot to envy from you, and a lot to scold you for.

Despite you are gone for a long time – you life was precious,

And those, who regarded you – were worth of it.

Word means – word, while throaty matter

Ended on throat – that you have only one;

Then you know how to enjoy life fully,

And those, in which blood circulates – don’t pale before death.

Existence is a horse for them! – You have to know steed;

Whether it listens to fists or chanson, whether it’s eager to steppe or crowd;

And know how not to fall, when speed rushes

And if you fall, whisper yet – eques polonus sum!*

And we, not from our own fault,

It’s a shame to admit –

We don’t know Latin anymore

And we have a hard time with Polish.

But ancestor in grave will behold:

We are so much more than that:

Because we love – ourselves!

Not really wanting to know ourselves!

*I am Polish noble man