Threnody the 8th, by John Kohanovski

Ruthless the vacuity you have made of my abode,
Dear Orsula mine, with this disappearing of yours.
We are plenty, and there is as nobody around,
Such a wealth has departed with a baby soul one.
You ever and again spoke, ever and again sang,
Every corner in the house, yourself merrily ran.
You didn’t let your mother hold on to worry or trouble,
Nor your father, waste his head in mentating pother.
This one or that one, so gracefully embracing,
You were, with that smile witty, joyous entertaining.
Now, all is silence; the house is emptiness profound;
There is no more littlun play, no laughter to resound,
Each of the corners, man breathes a piercing sad:
In sweetling child seeks comfort in vain, the pained heart.

Translation by Teresa Pelka from Jan Kohanovski, ■Tren VIII.