In danger the holothurian splits itself in two:
it offers one self to be devoured by the world
and in its second self escapes.
Violently it divides itself into a doom and a salvation,
into a penalty and a recompense, into what was and what will be.
In the middle of the holothurian's body a chasm opens
and its edges immediately become alien to each other.
On the one edge, death, on the other, life.
Here despair, there, hope.
If there is a balance, the scales do not move.
If there is justice, here it is.
To die as much as necessary, without overstepping the bounds.
To grow again from a salvaged remnant.
We, too, know how to split ourselves
but only into the flesh and a broken whisper.
Into the flesh and poetry.
On one side the throat, on the other, laughter,
slight, quickly calming down.
Here a heavy heart, there non omnis moriar,
three little words only, like three little plumes ascending.
The chasm doesn't split us.
A chasm surrounds us.
To the memory of Halina Poswiatowska