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My dear,

the long-awaited day has come, when we expect a visit from a very generous guest. I wish you beautiful gifts and invite you to read a poem about Santa Claus.

Weronika Madryas,

Wroclaw, 6/12/2022.

Santa Claus

In the midst of a starlit night

snow-covered sleigh rides

harnessed to reindeer.

Among the stars

the Benefactor rushes into the world.

Gray beard and purple

has the power of gifts,

for one night.

In the great sack he may find

something for: Basia and Kasia,

redhead Zuzia, little Ania,

Kuba, Janka, nice Frania.

It's not a car and it's not a doll

have great power,

only the love he gives

you on this cold night.

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My dear,
I invite you today to read a fairy-tale poem. So let the photo also be fabulous.

Weronika Madryas

Pumpkin fairy

Between the mountain and the river
apparently quite nearby,
there was a hut at the edge of the forest,
which in shape resembled a pumpkin.

Orange and squat
it rolled halfway around the world . 
She finally found a quiet corner
and said: I will not move from here!  

In the Pumpkin Hut Pumpkin Fairy,  
pumpkin ball, pumpkin wand. 
And right behind the hut, turn left,  
where the tree grows tall. 
And a few more steps to the side
and everyone will sigh: What a sight!

As far as the eye can see the ribbon of flower beds,
order between them too. 
Pumpkin Orange Field,  
oh how wonderfully colorful!
And leaves are dancing over the pumpkins,  
bellwether the wind rushes through the world!

Pumpkin fairy cares about pumpkins,  
probably someone's greatest da. 
Once the pumpkin became a coach,  
when Cinderella came to the rescue. 

A pumpkin fairy plays tricks on it
and look at every corner of the world . 
And if he kisses the pumpkin,  
the great fruit will enchant you.

Well, that's not all My Friend,  
the pumpkin field has been seen by many.
Few know, however,  
what happens next. 


Five steps to the left,  
six steps to the right.
Five minutes slow,  
six minutes briskly. 

At the end you see a small table,  
on it a plate and specials . 
Pumpkin Soup, Pumpkin Jam,  
Pumpkin Pie, Pumpkin Cream 
And a cake, and pumpkin seeds,  
pumpkin-shaped zucchini delicacy . 

And suddenly the pumpkin world disappears,  
and suddenly mom calls out: get up!
Go to school again,  
Multiply and read, divide practice. 

Only in my pocket a strange murmur,  
The pumpkin fairy is laughing. 
Got a handful of pumpkin seeds,  
nothing but bite, nothing but take . 
The Pumpkin Fairy goes to sleep.

Good morning dear,

Today, on such a special day, on the day of memories of our loved ones, those who are no longer with us, I would like to read you a poem from the collection "Poems of Weronika" entitled "Silent as falling leaves".


My dear,

in the vicinity of the Fairy-tale Green Hill there is a house called "Eden". It belonged to an old lady, a painter. Today I look with tenderness at the three pictures that I received one summer afternoon, when Ania and I went to our neighbor for an apple pie. I did not suspect then that this would be our last meeting.


  I invite you to read the poem.

Weronika Madryas 
Wrocław, on 09/06/2022
In memory of Lidia the painter Samborska


An old lady
she left the house near the forest 
She called Eden,  
to knock on the door of paradise . 

Autumn roses, shrubs, abundant walnut
remember tired hands,  
the same that they painted on the canvas with a brush
landscapes and wildflowers ...

The old lady left her Eden for Paradise.
Only immortal images
and the fairy-tale garden remained ...

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My dear,

I invite you to read the poem and see the photos with the lavender fairies.

What's going on about purple in the lavender world?

In a lavender world
lavender fairies,
lavender brooms, lavender wands ...
Violet spells, purple words,
purple dreams in lavender heads ...

In a lavender world
purple flowers,
purple birds,
wonderful fragrances ...

A shard of this world in dried flowers,
a crumb of this world is a memory of summer ...

Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, 02/05/2015


Mr. Year


The year is counted by four ma,

every time knows different.


When the reign begins

it rules the country in the cold.

His white advisor,

clothed in snow and frost,

as winter known in the world.

Her coming dream brings

the night lengthens and the day shortens.

The branches of the trees are huddled in the snow,

but when the mood is gloomy

the frosty wind summons

and puffy white clouds.

Frost, her humble servant,

paint the glass with a breath

and icicles sharp as steel

will hang here and there.


At the end of March, the snow is melting,

green hair trees,

the sun warms bolder and bolder.

Spring is walking in a flowing dress,

he wears a wreath in a storm of curls,

in which the birds nest

and chirping in the thicket of hair.

On lawns and squares

crocus, snowball and daisy.

Tulips and daffodils in the gardens,

in even beds.

And radish and parsley

and watercress and duckling,

behind her, a drake and ducklings,

chicks are hiding everywhere.

But it can be a capricious spring,

then storms and rain calls.

Then she mellows again

and the sun caresses the wet green.


After her, the laughing summer,

crazy, sleepy.

Brings short nights with him,

and with them singing and dancing,

kisses under the stars

and confessions under the trees,

under bridges, on benches,

in gazebos.

Summer doesn't like worries,

in his carelessness he loses his mind.

And he is reluctant to work too,

but he travels a lot.

The blue of the seas, the tops of the mountains,

desert sand, forest thicket,

he knows various paths

and wanders here and there.


And only misses autumn,

romantic, thoughtful,

large-brimmed hats,

the straw and felt ones,

freaks out.

Give umbrellas,

baskets, coats and rubber boots.

There is a pocket in the cape,

where are the colors of the palette,

hides brushes.

And his moods change

clear, dull, misty, rainy,

warm, cool, beautiful, gloomy.

Sometimes he dances with the wind,

then it wanders through the orchards,

Plums, apples in boxes.

And he tells you to look for nuts

in the mists, vapors, rain pouring.

Wading in golden, red leaves

Watches the keys of the birds,

and grows sad and grows,

even her dress darkens.

Still crying, still sighing

in addition, he coughs and sneezes,

especially before leaving.


Mr. Rok who is in power

has the nickname The Present,

when he passes by, he is called the Past

or the future, when it has not happened yet ...

My dear,

I invite you to read my poem about what saddens us most today ...

Weronick Madryas

Wrocław, 4 March 2022.


In Gardone Riviera

“In Rome at Campo di Fiori
Baskets of olives and lemons,
The pavement sprinkled with wine
And flower shards. "

Czesław Miłosz wrote,

poet and thinker.


In Gardone Riviera

sleepy ducks

the wind sways on Lake Garda.

White sails

against the cloudless sky

and olive flavor

from a nearby grove ...

In the shade of a mandarin tree

girl in a straw hat

humming a longing melody ...


It is there on the hill of Vittoriale degli Italiani

that is "the sanctuary of Italian victories",

where the one-eyed poet Gabriele D'Annuzio

hosted Benito Mussolini.

Although he called Hitler a "cruel clown",

he himself dreamed of resurrecting the Roman Empire.

Did they chat in the dining room

accompanied by a turtle monument,

put in honor of this

what ended up after the chocolate feast?


I remember Gardone Riviera

in Wrocław on a March day,

when I put the pot with primula on the balcony,

and the rays of the sun

they melt the falling snow.


And then I dive in

in the city of spring waiting.

And I look at the children in the squares,

worried faces of mothers

and a gentleman with a dachshund.


At that time, Kyiv is on fire.

On the orders of a madman

the war has started ...

In the fumes of the plague

for two years the world has been consuming

Ukraine is resisting

to the Russian invader ...

And around death, pain, tears,

fire and rubble ...


Easter is just around the corner ...


“Until everything is a legend
And then after many years
On the new Campo di Fiori
Rebellion will stir up the poet's word. "

Czesław Miłosz wrote

In Warsaw on Easter 1943.

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Weronika Madryas
Wrocław, February 27, 2022


At a fork in the road
soaring and slender,
right next to the second one,
lasted for forty-three years ...

Just before the end
the trunk broke.
Hair torn by the wind
she fell at her feet
her twin sister.

Dry, piercing crack
wind howling
and boughs broken around.
It's a landscape after.  

At a fork in the road
orphaned sob
longing for the lost ...

… And then the world drowned
in the arms of a madman.
Under fire
in a sea of blood and tears
our brothers are leaving.
We look at evil.
And my heart breaks
like a poplar trunk.  

Dry, piercing crack 
howling sirens
and pain around.
It is a landscape of war. 

My dear,

Today is a good day for greed. It remains for me to wish you a tasty meal and I am sending you a rhyme.


Baked and fragrant,
sugar-coated, sugar-coated,
jam stuffed with ...

Little, big eat,
crunches are almost bursting ...
But the faces are smiling
and happy eyes ...

Lick your fingers with a little finger!
This is the fifth one, highwayman!
Donut disappears from the plate
and the crumb also disappears soon ...


My dear,

for long and dark autumn evenings, the best are: nice music, warm tea,  the gentle glow of candles and a touch of poetry. That is why I offer you a pinch of the latter in an excerpt from my poem entitled Glass Collection. Today I would rather call this fragment Longing for summer ...

There are sweet moments
what like butterflies will fly away ...
when the wind shakes the rose cup
will depart ...

I implore them by whispering:
I have a collection of glass balls
and in them sadness, joy, pain ...
I charm with words ...

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My dear,
Today is a special day that makes people aware of the inevitability of passing away.

I once wrote a poem Silent like falling leaves ... 
And although they left, I trust that their love remains in us ...

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My dear,

After reading about the history of ten socks, we felt very sock-like, because Ania sewed, told stories and created a comic book during lessons at school.  Therefore, I am sharing with you my own literary inspiration, i.e. my poem and a photo with Ania's work.

Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, 25.X. 2021


Yellow socks

Gray-and-white little kitten,

known as Milka,

she drank milk very willingly

from the very morning.


She was playing with a ball of wool,

it rolled it, it chased it.

Until she was very wrong

and caused trouble.


Mother taught Ania

take care of your socks

and carefully after washing

Roll into soft balls.


Ania had such balls

I think eleven.

Each ball has a different pair

in polka dots, checkered, striped.


Ania balls for the drawer

she carefully folded it.

Only one yellow ball

she got lost somewhere.


Mom is looking, Ania is looking.

Find me lost - great art!


Milka is napping on the couch

and pretends not to know anything.

She discovered something in the corner

with which she had a little fun.


It just happened

to the mouse mink,

where is the mouse family

she was crunching cheese faworki.


- Look, Dad! We have a visitor!

The youngest mouse called.


And the socks stayed there

they took up residence in the mouse hole.

And they slept soundly in their socks

the two youngest white mice.


Sometimes fate plays tricks,

will change something, confuse something.

Have a sleeping bag from a sock?

This is not a joke. It's a mouse lucky.


Weronika Madryas            



I saw her at dusk yesterday
like leaning against the balustrade of a stone bridge,
she looked into the distance ...
... thoughtful, dreamy, fabulously beautiful.


I saw her yesterday at dusk
for the first time since last year.


I've heard a lot of rumors about it.
What some people whisper
that he has several lovers ...
... carefully calculates the time for them
for long-awaited meetings,
common nights and dawns


So tell you
what do they know about others
much less
… Sure


I admired her fiery hair
and a garment of fine cobwebs,
dark chocolate color,
embroidery of red leaves decorated with ...
An excellent tailor, an unusual spider
he made the last corrections hastily ...
... before meeting so important.


When the hand raised
and she whispered magic words,
they came
in the order determined by it.
Lovers of her nice, longing ...


First, the Lord of the Morning Mists hugged him
her slender and slender figure,
a transparent shawl of breath,
with dew diamonds weaved here and there ...


Then the Wind, a capricious, gusty lover,
with a gentle blast
her long, silky hair was carried away by dancing ...


Finally, it was raining in thin trickles
he moistened her pale cheeks,
gilded with freckles of the sun.
He kissed the charming figure,
he rolled the clever drops under his dress,
where its beginning and end,
white breasts and bare feet ...


And she is devoted to caresses,
she painted the leaves,
as they grew bolder ...
... her faithful lovers,
in love forever

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My dear,

Autumn is the time of trees, colorful hairs torn by the wind and falling leaves. Therefore, I invite you to read my poem entitled "Tree".

Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, 23 November 2008.




If you were a tree, my dear ...


What? - you ask,

intrigued and amused

my concept.

A soaring poplar? Weeping willow?

Or maybe a baobab? - you guess

smiling at me.


You would be an oak

- I answer seriously.


Strong trunk

a thick layer

pitted cortex


And the life-giving root,

reaching deep.

Your branches -

I close my eyes

indulging in dreams,

imaginations and daydreams-

branchy and strong,

bathed in green leaves,

would form a lush crown,

a ruler of a mighty worthy ...


-I would be the king of oaks? -

you say

still not serious.


-Maybe -

I nod with conviction

offended by your lack of weight ...

-And who would you be? -

you drill down on the topic,

curious about my answer.


-Red squirrel,

who has a shiny, fiery coat,

provocative and soft at the same time ..

Handy paws,

lithe body

promises full of ...

Black eyes,

cloudy look,

dreamy ...



you are amazed.


Yes -

I put my hand down

on your

with a soothing gesture.


I would live in you

Dear My ...

In your trunk

my hollow.

A quiet haven

protecting against confusion.

In the branches

my garden.

Paths labyrinth

only known to us.

In you

my world

and my refuge ...



-I'm asking seriously.

Of your face

I do not see

through the morning mist.

I do not hear the answer

by the melody

played with rain.


Do you understand,

I'm not sure...

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Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, on 6.09.2021


Mushrooms wear hats

small, large,

winding, bent.

They grow in moss,

among the ferns,

in the shade, warmth and humidity.


Mushroom picking - an interesting thing

but unfortunately you have to get up

in the morning or at dawn,

for life flourishes in the forest.


When you already have Dear Smyk

plenty of mushrooms in his basket,

look at the hats,

dismiss all suspects,

never seen before.


Among boletes and boletes,

you can hit the only one

treacherous, poisonous ...


He is also well known to everyone,

purple, spotted

toadstool called ...


This elegant gentleman

he once swore to himself secretly

destroy life with one bite.


The rest can be marinated,

season the sauce and boil it.

And thread them on the strings,

to smell, dry,

they delighted with their forest flavor.

Weronika Madryas 
Wrocław, December 16, 2007  


If the woman were a rose,
it would grow in a forest clearing,
in the green of lush grasses, 
a multitude of wild flowers,
among mighty trees
somewhat remote.
It would coquette tall oaks, silver beeches ...
... lonely, seemingly defenseless ...

Its chalice is its beauty 
would surpass the others
and with sweet spell he tempted
thicket of trees,
around those who are humming, torn by the wind.

If the woman were a rose, 
would smell more intense
than the flowers used to do.
And the petals would spread wider,
to show their beauty to the world
And she would hide her spines
under an umbrella of green leaves.
The dawn would brighten with dew,
shimmering, shining,
seducing unintentionally quite ...

Seemingly fragile and weak, 
among the trees moved with delight, 
strong as a bird of prey 
to be in fact ...
... a woman - a rose.

If the rose were a woman, 
it would have grown under a branch oak.
In his shadow she would seek a respite,
on hot days and storms
windy, rainy, dark.

It would bend its stalk towards the sun, 
and she opened the flower timidly.
And the spikes she would probably give to the defenseless
or lost by accident.
She flicked the dew drops accidentally,
to moisten the root with them, 
water the tree ...
... with gratitude, devotion, caring.

With the love of her only oak tree safe, 
trusting and devoted, 
defenseless like a beautiful flower,
in need of care ...
… Rose –woman.

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Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, January 14, 2021


January mimosa


Late at night

when you slept

the thing happened unheard of ...

… The world made you a snowman!


It fell asleep

and it got fabulous


Tree branches

wrapped in snow white,

silver frost,

they tremble in the wind ...


Well, yesterday morning

I received a letter from Sicily,

in which much has been written

and sunny.

There they supposedly turned golden

mimosa a bit prematurely.

I missed these leaves

dancing in the warm wind ...

... and the scent of honey,

and a wonderful view

and hot air ...


... although here it is winter and fabulous

My dear,
I am sad because today I am saying goodbye to Mr. Mieczysław's poem, the publisher of many of my fairy tales and several volumes of poetry.

And I only know that Krakow has irretrievably lost someone extraordinary and spiritual ...



Weronika Madryas Wrocław,

on January 13, 2021


Death in a time of plague


I dedicate the poem to Mrs. Marta Iskierka

and Mr. Mieczysław Mączka


Death in a time of plague

rampant and ubiquitous

took Mr. Mieczysław.


He left alone

in silence

without tender glances

and a handshake clasped ...


Mr. Mieczysław

he was part of the Krakow of poets.

Read in poems,

blended into poetry

to the end of his days ...


Mr. Mieczysław

he made books to measure,

patiently and persistently

like a weaver spider

spinning its thread.


Mr. Mieczysław

he left his city

winter time.

Orphaned Miniature,

Association of the Graybeard Poets,

written and unwritten poems

and my fairy tales not yet published ...


Death in a time of plague

hurt poetry painfully ...

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I invite you to a poetic conversation with the Nobel Prize winner.
The newest volume of poetry "About tenderness".

My dear,

I invite you to listen to my Lullaby of the Silver Moon in a beautiful performance by Jerzy Filar. By the way, I recommend the album Dwie dusze, which is an excellent Christmas gift for lovers of Jacek Cygan's texts.

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Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, 07/04/2014




I know gardens

cared for with weary hands

gardeners in straw hats ...

…One of them,

in trousers with braces

and a checkered shirt

with sleeves rolled up to the elbows,

entered my heart

which once flourished for you, Beloved

... before you unleashed a storm,

what havoc has done


Little gardener,

in trousers with braces

and a checkered shirt

with sleeves rolled up to the elbows,

robbed last year's feeling

like autumn leaves

and swept away all the nooks and crannies,

lest the winds blow away

sentiments and unwanted memories ...


My heart is like a garden

until recently, tears were watered by rain,

today with sorrows poured out,

ready for new sowing ...

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Weronica Madryas
Wrocław, September 09, 2010.


Heart-shaped leaf


Stained with rust and gold,
with a bit jagged edges
heart-shaped leaf ...
... glides across the silvery surface of the puddle

You see
It drowns in the pouring rain.
I bend over
heart-shaped leaf.
My face trembles
in the water mirror.
Wet cheeks and tearful eyes,
salty and warm tears,
and the rain drops sweet and cool.


Heart-shaped leaf
aged prematurely,
too short by the wind ...
It's still summer, although the nights are cold
and my hands are cold.
In the morning and at dusk
blue mists roll over the squares
and dance in the fields outside the city ...
Autumn is just around the corner
but it's not time yet
leaves fall ...
… It's not time to die yet


Have a look.
Heart-shaped leaf
yellowed prematurely,
it sank into a puddle,
lonely like me ...
I absorb his misery
lonely as a heart-shaped leaf ...
And my forehead is wrinkled with anxiety
You can see it, Nice, right?

Weronika Madryas Wrocław,

on 18.XI 2020.


In memory of Adam Sobolewski, eighth "b" class teacher and tutor, born in 1979


Geography teacher


Geography teacher

could teach

joke and wander

in the mountains and valleys,

over the stars and planets,

on maps and atlases,

across the globe of distant lands….


Geography teacher

did not punish

did not judge

without a deeper look

and necessary reflection.

He explained and discussed,

for a conversation

he greatly appreciated.


Geography teacher

he was an educator

and a gentleman at the same time.

Gallant, well-read,

funny, outspoken ...


Until suddenly in the autumn rain leaves,

in a misty and rainy November,

when the world is devoured by a plague,

finally passed away ...


Remained after Him

warm memories

and a geography notebook


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Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, 09/11/2020


George the hedgehog and the secret of hedgehogs


Under a warm tuft of leaves

a hedgehog will dream a fairy tale ...

... of which he will be the protagonist and experience a strange story.

That's what!


The autumn leaves gilded,

days shortened, the world grew together

cool rain.

Hedgehog Jerzy absent-minded,

a bit sleepy and weary

this greyness and bourness everywhere.


Even an egg tastes bad

- Today I will catch a snail -

that's what Jerzy is planning

during the rain.


But what is that?

Our poor guy

suddenly fell asleep,

snores slightly,

scratching my nose ...


You are wrong, My Little Smyk,

Very Honorable Reader,

if you are convinced

that the apple is golden brown

he has a dream!


I'll tell you a secret

an important secret about hedgehogs,

apples and other hedgehog treats ...


Well, no hedgehog,

George, too,

I don't like apples at all,

prefers eggs and snails,

and earthworms and grubs



He is a hunter

what to do at night hunting.

In winter, he sleeps well

and dreams of hedgehog tales.

That's what!

Weronika Madryas


Silent as falling leaves


There were also those who passed away in silence

as if to get fresh rolls from the corner shop

or the print of a fragrant, morning newspaper ...


Noiseless, always humble ...

With his own tact and discretion

they went to the other side ...


They didn't want to

tears, suffering and sorrow ...

Silent as falling leaves

beautiful as autumn landscapes ...

They wanted to remain unnoticed

even when they are missing ...


But why the tears are swift

can not stand?

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Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, 08/08 2008.




I saw the shadow of the mighty mountain

- you say thoughtfully.

The valley lying at her feet

fell at dusk

- you add, lowering your voice to a whisper.


I can imagine

houses bathed in darkness,

sloping walls and roofs

hungry for cold,

after a hot day.

And people

at the foot of a giant mountain

catching breath,

shadow cooled ...


Look - you say, pointing with your hand

on a stone wall,

next to us ...

Look, I say, pointing

on the path ahead,

which we were supposed to follow together ...


Our shadows

by bodies thrown in love,

they lean towards each other,

then even,

when anger

dilates the pupils,

quicken your breathing

sharp scream

destroys the peace around us ...


Our shadows

they tremble in the candlelight,

before intoxicating night.

And then

intertwined in a loving embrace ...


Our shadows

run ahead of us,

joyfully swinging

jumping steps ...

They're holding their hands

as we…


Our shadows

tango dance,

when you hold me in your arms

listening to music ...


Our shadows

inseparable ...


we together…


And after that


at our feet

chained for eternity ...

… Although it's hard for them

live without yourself


And when

they pass each other indifferently on the street,

carried by our anger

they only dream

to break away from us

and with each other happily follow ...

Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, on 25. October 2007.




Your ambush intricately woven,

her beautiful embroidery turns silver in the sun,

the dew drops shine like diamonds ...

... You are elegant in the center

in a gentlemanly pose of encouragement ...


When you hear wings flutter,

you walk slowly on your sticky thread

You seduce and seduce innocence.

Finally, she was lured by your pose,

falls into dense networks of arms,

to die alone in suffering ...


Sometimes he watches you walk

you take certain steps slowly.

You sneer at your slave girl with mockery,

you carefully count the time to death.


When finally unable to resist

trapped, bound, lonely,

You embrace her treacherous,

that she would end her life in an embrace ...


And the thread is sticky, strong and bright,

tightly a fine figure wraps.

And although he tries to open his wings,

enslaved will not soar

into the bright space of blue, freedom,

a lost world of innocence.

And attempts to escape are in vain

Your truly terrible snare ...


Finally I feel a painful sting,

he sees the blood on the silver dagger.

He hears a beating then a crack

tremendous pain burst her heart ...


And you stand and look with pity,

how she perished under her own weakness.

For though you have woven a beautiful circle,

you have never invited her ...


And not in your snares,

but in its vanity it has passed away ...

… Seduced by the illusion of love

not immune to the spell of passion ...


Your ambush intricately woven,

her beautiful embroidery turns silver in the sun,

the dew drops shine like diamonds ...

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Weronika Madryas

Wrocław,  2 October 2005.




The wind ducks sways on the river

In dense fog shrouded in ...

Raindrops rumble on the windowsill

Drip, drip, drip, drip ...

Melancholy flows down the panes in thin rivulets

Longing for summer overwhelms me ...

Ring, ring, ring, ring ...


In a wicker basket, I arrange sun-pampered fruits,

I fill the jars with rose jam

With love for you, I sweeten you dearest ...

Peel the nuts from their shells

And they prepare the stuffing for you

I put my love for you, the only one for you ...


And the wind tugs at the trees

Although the sun sometimes screams bright shine from behind the clouds ...

Raindrops rumble on the windowsill

Drip, drip, drip, drip ...

Melancholy flows down the panes in thin rivulets

Longing for summer overwhelms me ...

Ring, ring, ring, ring ...


My dear,

Autumn has already colored the hairs of the trees. Painted leaves, golden, purple and red, are more beautiful around.
I remember a poem I once wrote called Autumn season.
Please read the excerpt:

I see you tangled in the fog
you fill the basket with nuts ...
... autumn season ...

And surrender to the mood ...


My dear,

Autumn has settled for good, in gardens, parks, florists' stalls and the fruit market.
Melancholic and capricious, she inspires painters and poets. I once wrote about autumn moods in the poem Ogrodnik.

"Little gardener,
in trousers with braces
and a checkered shirt
with sleeves rolled up to the elbows,
robbed last year's feeling
like autumn leaves
and swept all the nooks and crannies,
lest the winds blow away
sentiments and unwanted memories ... "

My dear,

This morning I received a lovely card from my daughter. I was touched and I wanted to share my poem with you.


Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, October 22, 2019


My little one


I left so little time

to touch and conversation,

for a walk in the rain

and wading through the leaves

in the autumn twilight, rustling ...


I left so little time

for what is important and worth attention ...

Trapped in prose and routine

everyday rites

from monotones woven ...

... and days so similar to each other

more than tears, drops of dew or snowflakes ...


And suddenly you, my little one

wonderfully curious about the world,

joyful and cheerful

like a spring lark,

what the day wakes up in twitter ...


Knock Knock…

You invaded my life

to make sense ...

Plum ...

You came in with a thud

like a plum in the proverbial compote ...


Do you know my little one?

I like to feel your warm fingers in my hand,

when in a hurry I run ...

And I like to sink into the cornflower blue eyes

full of questions: where to? for what?

And I like your laugh

when the wind lifts a feather frivolous ...


Oh, the prose of life

a trifle with you!

Little My ...



Dom i dziewczyna.jpg

Weronika Madryas


on August 19, 2020


This house on the hill


I know this house

full of nooks and crannies

what stands on the hill.

More than one hides a secret

like a girl in a crimson skirt

with frilled edges.



I know this girl

what is going up the hill.

To this house

with whitewashed walls,

purple roof

behind the trees with hairs hidden.

In her soul nooks and crannies

sweet secrets ...


She and the house on the green hill,

him and the girl with dreaming eyes

they quietly whisper their secrets

and dreams come true ...

… Just before going to sleep

Wrapped in the night,

silvered by the moonlight ...

Weronika Madryas Sulistrowiczki,

on August 23, 2020


And the lime tree bloomed just before being cut


You were looking at me

from behind a bush of blooming roses,

what a cascade of pale pink goblets

on your figure, arms, hair fell ...


Arch-shaped gate

she was drowning in flowers,

when you smiled at me

first time…


Our paths intertwined

rare for afternoons,

when you baked the pancakes,

the July sun was warm,

the lawn mowed smelt

and the brook whispered its tale ...


In the shade of the magnificent linden tree

the two of us were sitting,

separated by age difference

which makes everyday matters distant

in the ordinary world.


Despite and in spite of it

the friendship thread between us

the fate of the joker weaved ...

lipa 1.jpg
roza 02.jpg
roza 01.jpg

Weronika Madryas,

Wroclaw, dated 13.01.2008.


Tea rose bud


Stalk her

stuffed with studs,

bent to the sun.

The bow of lust

unaware yet.

Her bud

a harbinger of beauty,

hidden inside

which will happen soon.


Patience, patience -

- tells passersby, black cat

and an old woman with a watering can in her hand,

always ready to give her a drink ...


And the rain of golden leaves


Cascade on the green lawn


and the rug creates a colorful

rustling under feet ...


And she

the petal deflects uncertainly,

is slowly blooming,

shows the tea beauty to the world ...

... On the beauty of the flower does not lose

Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, 15.05.2016


Different springs




Astonished at my eyes

beauty of foggy, spring Paris,

dewy rain ...


Small on my feet

ribbons of cobbled streets,

boulevards, market squares of all kinds ...


For my slim hands

lilies of the valley, flowers

fragrant, may ...


... before you were born

Anna Marianna, My Dream Daughter




Astonished at our eyes

rapeseed flowering, fragrant

like golden, spreading rugs

endlessly ...


On our feet small

path among fields,

which mother and elderly daughter every evening

for a walk it leads ...


For our slim hands

tulips, bouquets

from a florist,

what a roadside stall guards

and passerby looks out, waits ...


Watchful ears

singing of women praying

at the feet of Christ,

what at the crossroads



On our hearts tender

joint wanderings, landscapes,

common spring, maje

and return home ...


... when you are already

Anna Marianna, My Dream Daughter

Portet wianek_m.jpg
Weronika Madryas_wiersze_scene.jpg

Ruffle skirt

trailing, silk and heavy,

I dropped the dew drops accidentally

from a spider web in a rose weaved bush.


I destroyed the intricate embroidery,

I cut my fingers with rose thorns

and I stained the thread with silver blood ...

Poems have been in me since I can remember. Oh yes, long before I began writing fairy tales, I wrote poems. Poetry is a must for the poet. Sometimes, when I look or listen, I feel the swirling thoughts sway me with poetic inspiration. Then I carry this reflection within me for a while until it ripens long enough for a poem to be born.
In two volumes, I tried to collect the most important songs for me, including those written for children.

Weronika MadryasThoughts and feelings are described in a poem
Weronika MadryasPensieri e sentimenti sono descritti in una poesia

The third volume is very special because it contains poems by My Grandmother
Veronica, after whom I inherited both the name and the poetic soul. Some time agoGrandma gave me the key to her heart, which is an old notebook full of chaotically written pages. Just browsing and organizing took a lot of time, but finally managed to recover the most valuable and deeply moving,

grandma's poems.

Therefore, I invite you to read nostalgic on long or rainy evenings.


Autorka baśni Weronika Madryas

"Welcome to my Fairy Tale"


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