Polish Poetry
 

 

AT SUPPER


Twelve sat there
around the simple table
without decorative napkins
or a china dinner set
the aroma of broken bread
filled their nostrils
the wine in the tumblers
was like blood - red, clear
and He washed their feet
full of great love
which could not fit
in the narrow room
-- only the crickets behind the window
became silent in amazement
that it is so simple.

Krystyna Zajac

 

 


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