L. Kondratowicz - Niepiśmienny.docx

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                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Niepiśmienny                                                                                                                                                                I                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Ja nie zazdroszczę, chowaj mię Boże,                                                                                                                          Nic i nikomu  na bożym świecie;                                                                                                                                                                        Jednego tylko zazdroszczę może,                                                                                                                                                                    Że wy, panowie, pisać umiecie.                                                                                                                                                                                                           Dajcie mi pióro i kartę białą,                                                                                                                                                     Nauczcie piórem wodzić w potrzebie!                                                                                                                                    Tożby latało, tożby latało,                                                                                                                                                            Jak błyskawica po ciemnym niebie!                                                                                                                                                     Wszystko, co boli, co cieszy szczerze,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Co sam obczę, co mi kto powie,                                                                                                                                                                                   Wszystko bym wiernie kładł na papierze,                                                                                                              Dumka po dumce, słowo po słowie.                                                                                                                                         Spisałbym widok bożego świata,                                                                                                                                                  Każdy tak piękny, każdy odmienny;                                                                                                                                                                                          A teraz wszystko marnie ulata,                                                                                                                              Bom nieuczony, bom niepiśmienny.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                II                                                                                                                                                                                                        Spisałbym najprzód piękne sny moje,                                                                                                                                                                                                            Bo czasem cudnie przyśnić się zdarzy,                                                                                                                                                                              Kiedy zobaczę śliczną dziewoję,                                                                                                             Albo aniołów o jasnej twarzy.                                                                                                                                     Spisałbym potem ptasząt słóweczka,                                                                                                                                                                    Ranne skowronka   Zdrowaś Marya;                                                                                                                                                          Wydałbym pismem, co mówi rzeczka,                                                                                                                                                                                                       Gdy się w kamykach pianą rozbija.                                                                                                                                                          Co mówi z wiatrem kolonista  niwa,                                                                                                                                                                                  Co ryczą woły, jak beczą stada.                                                                                                                                                                                      Jak dzwon kościelny ludzi przyzywa,                                                                                                            A potem, mrucząc, sam z sobą gada.                                                                                                                         Jak kowal młotem bije w kowadło,                                                                                                        Jak młynarz grzmoce w rozszczep kamieni,                                                                                                                                                                                 Wszystko by wiernie spisać wypadło -                                                                                                                               Pożal się Boże! jam niepiśmienny!                                                                                                                      III                                                                                                                                                                        Jakie rozkosze, jakie rozkosze,                                                                                                                              Umieć wypisać słowie po słowie                                                                                                                Co marzę w myślach co w sercu noszę,                                                                                                                Karta zrozumie piórko wypowie,                                                                                                                Ludzie gotowi wyśmiać biedaka,                                                                                                                Nie zrozumieją serce ci zranią,                                                                                                                              A z czasem dumka przychodzi taka,                                                                                                                 Że słów żadnych nie znaleźć na nią                                                                                                                Ja bym po prostu jak serce puka,                                                                                                                Tak bym i pisał na białej karcie,                                                                                                                Pukania serca złowić nie sztuka,                                                                                                                Ludziom nie można mówić otwarcie,                                                                                                                Pióro wyskrzypi od serca mowę.                                                                                                                A papier milczy jak mur ścienny,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              1128                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Dumki – gołąbki bywajcie zdrowe,                                                                                                                Ja was nie chwycę ja niepiśmienny.                                                                                                                IV                                                                                                                                                                        Łatwiejże  panom ,łatwiej Żydowi,                                                                                                                Szczęśliwi w sądach biegli pisarze,                                                                                                                On swoje dumki na papier złowi,                                                                                                                A potem z ludźmi co chce dokaże,                                          ...

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