Rafal Wojaczek (spelled: voyachek) is one of the greatest Polish poets of the 20th century. He was born in 1945 and died by his own hand in 1971. He lived in Wroclaw. Whenever I visit the city, I think of him a lot. The spots mentioned in his poems have a poignant charm for me. A few years ago, on All Saints' Day, I had the urge to put flowers on his grave, but could not locate it. The nun who, apparently, was in some kind of charge of the cemetery murmured sternly she did not know where the grave was. I inquired with a few people from the dense crowd filling the cemetery (many Poles still piously celebrate All Saints' Day), but some of them did not know, whereas others pointed the wrong spot. Eventually, I placed the flowers on a desolate grave. I'm sure there are many people who know where Wojaczek's grave is, but I was not fortunate to hit upon them. Below one of Wojaczek's poems where the narrator is a woman.
CROSS
I am level
You are vertical
You are the mountain
I am the valley
I am the Earth
You are the Sun
I am the shield
You are the sword
I am the wound
You are the pain
I am the night
You are God
You are fire
I am water
I am naked
You are in me
I am level
But not always
You are vertical
But not forever
I am the vertical
Mountain of orgasm
You are level
Near me
CROSS
I am level
You are vertical
You are the mountain
I am the valley
I am the Earth
You are the Sun
I am the shield
You are the sword
I am the wound
You are the pain
I am the night
You are God
You are fire
I am water
I am naked
You are in me
I am level
But not always
You are vertical
But not forever
I am the vertical
Mountain of orgasm
You are level
Near me