I’m fifteen. I’m a boy scout,

I lost my knife and compass in the woods.

I walk along Dworcowa Street, high above me

Silesia’s hazy sun and a hawk

who seeks a friend in vain.

I’m an altar boy in an ugly church,

I’m twelve, I know the sacristy’s smell,

its blend of starch and sweat.

I listen to jazz, Charlie Parker is dead now.

I’m eighteen, I’m a high school graduate

in a white shirt and a navy tie.

I’ve started reading poetry, I sometimes

seem to understand everything

I’m fifteen, I watch adults

indulgently. I’m certain I won’t

make the same mistakes.

- “I’m Fifteen” by Adam Zagajewski