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Mikołaj Hussowski (c. 1480–1533)
A POEM ON BISON
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I confess out of all things I had seen
Nothing moves me so as the sight when the beast,
Rushing furiously, destroys everything,
Unable to catch the man he wants to kill.
He comes to a stop, breathes in, and waits,
Attempting to sense something just by smell.
In rage, he wants to chase all living things,
Each man that's suspected of causing his wounds.
What falls in his reach, he impales on his horns,
And tosses up the limbs crushed to a pulp.
A man or a horse or even both bodies
He tosses up, they're now tangled in the air;
When they fall he crushes them, tosses again,
The rain of blood and flesh scatters in the wind.
Here man and horse are smashed into one lump.
It seems shared blood is gushing from the same flesh.
Bones of encountered animals scatter:
Each wanted to escape, but spotted, fell down.
We saw deer that were tossed into the air,
When he barred their way and pierced them with his horns!
He also can crush wild boars and fierce bears,
If I can say so, with ample evidence.
With a single blow he tears out intestines--
They all scatter around, piece after piece.
So high and so many of those bits of flesh
Are whirling about, it is hard to believe,
The ominous fowl find food in the air,
The raven picks torn carcasses in the tress.
Is that be a rider hanging in the branches,
Thrown into the air, while his crushed horse fell down?
It happened when the bison tossed up both,
An unharmed rider stayed up in the tree.
No point to give more evidence and lose
Too many words, if you do not believe,
No man could ever say he failed to see
An enraged bison, destroying all he could:
Wherever he rushes, there follows a whirl,
Resembling a loud roar of tempestuous waves.
When he is content, what racket and rattle
Accompany the leaps of this daredevil!
With what joyful movements his limbs are filled,
When he believes that he wreaked his vengeance!
Blood-thirsty vigor flows into his horns!
Not enough words to describe it in full.
He is so fast that he looks like a cloud
Of dust or snow, not like a rushing beast.
The air, full of carcass, bespeaks a slaughter,
The snow that turned red shows where it took place,
And body pieces hanging from bent branches,
While the remaining pulp fell to the ground.
Behind their provider, wherever he goes,
Flies a carnivorous cloud of birds of prey.
He keeps tossing the carcass, turns around -
This horrible kill will not be enough,
Till he crushes the limbs, turns the body
Into pulp, the remaining bones tramples down!
A troop of riders, not too big, charges him,
Inciting him with shouts and thousands of threats,
At times doomed to die; though skilled, many fall,
Inevitable fate carried them off,
It's easy to spread out in an open field
And laugh watching, when the beast roars in rage.
In forests it all happens otherwise:
A horse stumbles over a rotting log,
A rider is often misled by molehills
Or stopped by patches of ice covered by snow.
It's hard to evade overhanging boughs,
On many paths hidden death lies in wait,
When someone falls, the beast will catch him or horse
And now a lifeless body is in the air.
Often the bravest man who escapes one horn
Is pierced by another coming from the side,
If I wished to pursue everything that's known
About the bison, to recount what I know,
There would likely be no end to my words
And what a volume I would have to write!
Yet this hunting could be regarded foolish
And deadly - many a man met his death -
If the guilt were not washed off by the ruler,
Whose name, full of glory, is famed till now.
By such measures Witold's lofty spirit
Was restoring his homeland's weakened power.
19
In these games he trained the youth for battle,
When he was the duke of Lithuanian lands.
To be prepared for the foe, in peaceful days
He burdened all with hard toil in his domain.
A friend of peace, yet ardent torch of war,
How many times he ordered swords to be drawn!
The Tartar, in fear, put down his broken bows,
Bending his neck under any conditions.
The foe who waged victorious wars for spoils,
At once became more odious spoil himself,
He knew no other kings, when facing Witold,
He would surrender and had to stand trial.
The Muscovite also called in servile words
For master, himself one among the mighty,
And the strong Turk was sending Witold grand gifts,
Almost eager to listen to his orders.
Notes:
19
Vytautus the Great (c. 1350-1430), was one of the most famous rulers of Lithuania. Known in Poland as Witold, he was a cousin of King Wladyslaw II of Poland.
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