M. Konopnicka - Idzie cichy wiatr przez pole.docx

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                                                                                                                                                                                      grain-67632_640.jpg                                                        Idzie cichy wiatr przez pole…                                                                                                                                                     Idzie cichy wiatr przez pole,                                                                                                                                                             Kołysze się falą żyto…                                                                                                                                                                                     - Hej, Cyganko! Hej, wróżbito!                                                                                                                                                                           Wywróżże mi moją dolę,                                                                                                                                                         A wróż mi ją z gwiazdy onej,                                                                                                                                                                                Co nad chatą naszą świeci…                                                                                                                                                               Z tego szumu, co tam leci                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Od dąbrowy, od zielonej,                                                                                                                                        A wróż mi ją z prawej ręki,                                                                                                                                                                        Z prawej reki żywicielki…                                                                                                                    Ze źródełka u grobelki,                                                                                                                                                                                                 Co zaklęte gra piosenki!...                                                                                                                         A wróż mi ją dobrym słowem,                                                                                                                                                                   Z onej tęczy, z onej wstęgi,                                                                                                                                                           A wróż mi ją pismem owem,                                                                                                                                                                                          Co to piszą stare księgi!                                                                                                                                                  - Doli twojej nie ma w księdze                                                                                                                                                      Ni na wodzie, ni na niebie,                                                                                                                                                                   Jeno w czarnym twoim chlebie,                                                                                                                           Jeno w siwej twej siermiędze.                                                                                                                         Ani z gwiazd złotego snopa,                                                                                                                                                                         Ani z szumu u grobelki,                                                                                                                                    Tylko z ręki żywicielki                                                                                                                                                               Wróżyć mogę dolę chłopa!                                                                                                                            Oj, będziesz ty, będziesz panem,                                                                                                                                                                   Ni to królem, ni hetmanem…                                                                                                                                        Twoje państwo , jak świat długi,                                                                                                                                       Zaorany twymi pługi…                                                                                                                                                                      Będziesz chodził ty w czerwieni                                                                                                                                                      Potu swego krwawej rosy…                                                                                                                                    W złocie, w srebrze tych promieni,                                                                                                                   Co padają od twej kosy…                                                                                                                              Wykopiesz ty skarb bogaty,                                                                                                                              Gdzie ta rola zaorana,                                                                                                                                            I talary dukaty,                                                                                                                                                          Nie dla siebie lecz dla pana…                                                                                    1021                                          Umiłuje cię królowa,                                                                                                                                            Co się odrzec siebie nie da                                                                                                                              I aż na śmierć ci dochowa                                                                                                                              Ślubnej wiary… krwawa bieda !                                                                                                                Nocką śpi , nocką zbudzi,                                                                                                                              Strzec zasiądzie twego proga                                                                                                                               Ani tobie z nią di ludzi                                                                                                                                            Ani tobie z nią do boga….                                                                                                                              Jak się wiosną ruszą kwiatki                                                                                                                               I roztają rzeki z lodu,                                                                                                                                            Uśpi ona twoje dziatki                                                                                                                                            Pieśnią płaczu, pieśnią głodu…                                                                                                                 A i droga ciebie czeka                                                                                                                                            Nie szeroka , nie wysoka                                                                                                                              Ale w ziemię.. het… głęboka…                                                                                                                              Ale w górę.. het… daleka…                                                                                ...

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