L. Kondratowicz Sosna.docx

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                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Sosny - pejzaż.png                                                                                                                                            Sosna                                                                                                                Na wioskowych mogiłach                                                                                                                                Rosła sosna borowa.                                                                                                                                                                        Pień jej krzepnął na siłach,                                                                                                                Wybujała jej głowa.                                                                                                                                                                     Pogiętymi konary                                                                                                                                                                     Na sto sążni rozwisa,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    A korzeńmy bez miary                                                                                                                                    Żółty piasek wysysa.                                                                                                                                                                   Z mogił wyrósłszy cała,                                                                                                                                                                                     Za te soki, co bierze,                                                                                                                                                                                                      Z wiatrem sobie szumiała                                                                                                                                                     Za umarłych pacierze.                                                                                                                                                           Aż coś jednej jesieni                                                                                                                                                      Biedna sosna borowa                                                                                                                                                                                                        Coraz mniej się zieleni                                                                                                                                                                         I pożółkła jej głowa.                                                                                                                                                                                        I została na stronie                                                                                                                                                                           Co dzień cichsza, milcząca.                                                                                                                                                          Każdy wietrzyk co wionie,                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Więcej kolców z niej strąca;                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Rzuca w ziemię rodzimą                                                                                                                                                                                            Zeschłe szyszki i ziarna…                                                                                                                                                             W końcu – jeszcze przed zimą -                                                                                                                                                                                     Zeschła sosna cmentarna.                                                                                                                                                                       Wiat żałośnie jej pyta:                                                                                                                                                                   - „Biedna sosno z mogiły!                                                                                                                                                                        Czyś ty gromem przebita!?                                                                                                                                  Czyć robaki stoczyły?                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Czy ci żeru nie było                                                                                                                                                                 W żółtym piasku z pobliska?                                                             1104                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Albo  kamień swą bryła                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Twe korzenie uciska?”                                                                                                                                                         - „Och, mnie nie tknął grom z burzą                                                                                                                                                                             I robaki nie toczą,                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Ziemia soków ma dużo                                                                                                                                                                                   I  mnie karmi ochoczo.                                                                                                                                                              Gdzie kamienie i głazy,                                                                                                                                               Szłam z korzeńmy z daleka,                                                                                                                                                                                  Wrosłam – gorzej sto razy!                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       W trumnę złego człowieka!                                                                                                                                                                                   Trumna zgniła na próchno,                                                                                                                                                                                                  Zgniły w piersiach mu błonki,                                                                                                                                                                                       W serce trupa leciuchno                                                                                                                                                                                                    Zapuściłam korzonki.                                                                                                                                                                                            Chłód mnie przebiegł gronowy,                                                                                                                                                       Gdym possała zeń trocha:                                                                                                                                                                                          Bo to człek był takowy,                                                                                                                                                                   Co nikogo nie kocha!                                                                                                                           Pierwsze z piersi swej soki                                                                                                                                                                               Dał cmentarnej choinie;                                                                                                                                                                         Czułam, jak z tej opoki                                                                                                                                                                                 Brzydki we mnie jad płynie.                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Z jadem śmierci w mym łonie                                                                                                                                                                                      Byłam smutna, milcząca…                                                                                                                                                                                 Każdy wietrzyk, co wionie,                                                                                                                                                                                                     Więcej kolców mi strąca.                                                                                                                                                                                           Próżno w ziemię rodzimą                                                                                                                                                                                       Nowe rzucać chcę ziarna…                                                                                                                         Ziarna zeschły – przed zimą                                                                                                                                                           Ginie sosna cmentarna!”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              ...

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