W.Broniewski - Mój pogrzeb.docx

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Mój pogrzeb                                                                                                                                                         Mnie ta ziemia od innych droższa,                                                                                                                                         ani chcę, ani umiem stąd odejść,                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Tutaj Wisłą, wiatrami Mazowsza                                                                                                        przeszumiało mi dzieciństwo i młodość.                                                                                                                                           W moim oknie pole i topole,                                                                                                                i ja wiem, że to właśnie – Polska.                                                                                                                                         Stąd i radość, i chmura na czole,                                                                                                 tutaj słowa me zbroję jak wojska.                                                                           A te słowa zrozumie ziemia,                                                                                             choćby miały się krwią wysączyć:                                                                                                                             przecież nawet mury więzienia                                                                                                                            obrastają poezją jak pnączem.                                                                                                                            Tutaj do mnie najcichszym listkiem                                                                                             ufnie mówią  topole i wierzby,                                                                                                                                     moje serce tu wie o wszystkim,,                                                                                       chyba tutaj umrę – bo gdzieżby?                                                                                                                       Więc gdy umrę, dobrze mnie otul,                                                                                                                                                                     ziemio czarna, znajoma, dobra,                                                                                                           szeregami żałobnych topól                                                                                             niechaj idzie za mną krajobraz                                                                                                                                                             I niech w srebrnym liści popłochu                                                                                                                     długo szumią nadwiślańskie drzewa                                                                                                                  o tym wszystkim, com czuł i kochał,                                                                                                                      o tym wszystkim, czegom nie wyśpiewał.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          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