I am of clothing drying in the wind
Of quiet breezes and roaring gusts
There and gone.
I am of the fields, golden and ripe
Of warm soup and welcoming arms
Whispers of "I love you".
I am of the past, lost in time
Of polish blood and words
"Kocham cię" , Zoyka.
I am of traditions, many years strong
But one day I will choose which ones to leave
And which ones to carry on.
