K.Gałcznski - Fablandia.docx

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Farlandia                                                                                                                                                                  Myśmy mieli się spotkać na moście,                                                                                                                    by pomówić o naszej miłości                                                                                                                                                                                   pod tym klonem koło budki z papierosami;                                                                                                                      ale, jakem przewidywał: oczywiści                                                                                                                                                          most w powietrze wysadzili anarchiści,                                                                                                                         no to gdzie się teraz spotkamy?                                                                                                    Wszędzie duszno i ciasno – lecz znam ja                                                                                                                                                                           pewien kraj pod nazwą Farlandia,                                                                                                                      tam jest niebo śpiewające i palmy                                                                                                                            No, no, nie płacz, nie troskaj się, nie martw,                                                                                                                  że tego mostu już nie ma -                                                                                                                                                                 my się jutro w Farlandii spotkamy:                                                                                                                                              Palmy się kołyszą,                                                                                                                                        palmy się kołyszą -                                                                                                                                                                    tak – tak – tak.                                                                                                                                                                                          Tu wszystko zostało,                                                                                                                                       tu więcej nie wrócę -                                                                                                                                                                               nie – nie – nie.                                                                                                                                                                                       Ptaki nad palmami,                                                                                                                                                                                                                          w palmach słodkie miąższe -                                                                                                                             mi – ma – mi.                                                                                                                                                                             Karmimy się snami,                                                                                                                                    a w snach zmów najdroższe                                                                                                                                               palmy.                                                                                                                                         Palmy się kołyszą -                                                                                                                                                                   palmy się kołyszą -                                                                                                                                                               za dużo.                                                                                                                                                                       To jest kraj, który  jedziemy odkryć,                                                                                                                                                                   bardzo wiotki, bardzo słodki -                                                                                                                                                Farlandia.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              O mej poezji                                                                                                                                               Moja poezja to jest noc księżycowa,                                                                                                                     wielkie uspokojenie;                                                                                                                             kiedy poziomki słodkie są w parowach                                                                                                                                                      i słodsze cienie .                                                                                                                                                                                                                Gdy nie ma przy mnie kobiet ani dziewczyn                                                                                                 gdy się uśpiło                                                                                                                                                                              wszystko i świerszczyk w szparze cegły trzeszczy,                                                                                                                                                        że bardzo miło.                                                                                                                                             Moja poezja to są proste dziwy,                                                                                                                                                 to kraj , gdzie, w lecie                                                                                                                                                          stary kot usnął pod lufcikiem krzywym                                                                                                                                                         na parapecie.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            O naszym gospodarstwie – fraszka                                                                                                                                                         O, zielony Konstanty, o, srebrna Natalio!                                                                                                      Cała wasza wieczerza dzbanuszek z konwalią;                                                                                                  wokół dzbanuszka skrzacik chodzi z halabardą,                                                                                                          broda siwa, lecz dobrze splamiona musztardą,                                                                                                  widać, podjadł, a wyście przejedli i fanty -                                                                                                  o, Natalio zielona, o, srebrny Konstanty!                                                     917                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Piosenka                                                                                                                                                        Moja mała bardzo lubi rosół,                                                                                                                       moja smagła, moja smukła.                                                                                                        Gdy je rosół, to ja jestem wesół,                                                                                                                bo to szczęście, gdy jest rosół i bułka.                                                                                                                                                    W oberży dla bezrobotnej inteligencji,                                                                                                            pod afisze Ligi Morskiej i Rzecznej,                                                                                                                moja mała ma miejsce bezpieczne,                                                                                                          dużą łyżkę trzyma w małej ręce.                                                                                                                   Tu w szachy grają dwa biedne diabły -                                                                                                                                                                             śnieg, śnieg po Wilnie hula.                                                                                                                     Kreślę na dłoni smukłej i smagłej                                                                                                                                                   drogę dla bajki o Trzech Królach.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Mały Apollo                                                                                                                                                                                  Rankiem, na ulicy Młynowej,                                                                                                                                gdy się jeszcze przytulamy do siebie,                                                                                                                               żona, podnosząc z nad poduszki głowę:                                                                                                      - Patrz  ! – mówi. - Niebieski Chłopczyk na niebie.                                                                                                                                                           W południe, gdy kot w czarne grochy                                                                                                                                do kościoła idzie po murze,                                                                                                                 moja żona, piorąc pończochy,                                                                                                                      woła; - Patrz! Srebrny Chłopczyk na chmurze.                                                                                                                                A wieczorem znowu  ja z ran,                                                                                               gdy się sosny uciszą w ogrodzie,                                                                                                                                                               szepce dziewczyna kochana:                                                                                                                    - Patrz! Złocisty Chłopczyk na zachodzie.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Instrumentami potrząsać…                                                                                                                                                                              Instrumentami potrząsać, gdy wschodzi księżyc,                                                                                                                               gdy lekka noc i słodkie szmery wokół.                                                                                                                    Konie wieńczyć kwiatami, morze kołysać n piersiach jak zonę                                                                                        pochmurnooką, witać poranki idące zza gór jak dzieci ze szkoły.                                                                                                                Instrumentami potrząsać, gdy zachodzi słońce,                                                                                                                 usta kobiety ukochać nad wszystko, nad słonce i księżyc,                                                                                                         ...