The Rooster of Kazimierz Dolny
Bożena Gałuszewska
Long ago, in Piast’s old days,
When no town had yet been raised,
When no market, church, nor hall,
Just two huts—that would be all—
There above the Vistula
Stood a hill called Windy Draw.
If you ask me why the name,
I shall tell you just the same:
Folk who wandered near that land
Found it strange and hard to stand,
For day by day, the whole year through,
Hellish winds around it blew,
And each night and at first light,
Wild howls echoed in the night.
Such a cursed and haunted hill,
Bleak and barren, cold and still,
Fit for neither crop nor feast,
Neither dance nor song nor priest…
No one cast a curious glance,
None would risk a stroll, perchance—
All would skirt the hill in fright,
Terrified of what took flight.
Till one day, in years gone by,
Came a monk with bearded eye.
Built a hut of grass and thread,
Had a stool and straw-stuffed bed.
Lived in modest, humble cheer,
Feeding on roots far and near.
Bees would share their golden store,
Birds drank dewdrops at his door.
All around him brought delight,
Still, he sought no slothful night—
For his good and others’ too,
He would tend to herbs that grew.
Sprinkled them with morning dew,
So the sick might sip a brew.
In the yard the monk did keep
A speckled rooster, stout and deep—
Loyal friend through thick and thin,
Brave of heart and bold of skin.
Tales of him are still retold,
Whispers passed from young to old,
In each hedge and village nook
Live the legends that they took.
Would you hear how it began?
What befell in days of man?
I shall tell you—though I shiver,
Fear runs cold through spine and liver.
Let me start at tale’s first light,
In that corner fair and bright,
Named, as every soul shall know,
For the king of long ago.
What took place in ages past—
Words may fail to hold it fast…
Daytime gleamed with golden grace,
Vistula’s blue kissed earth’s face.
But when night began to fall,
Demons answered shadow’s call.
From all corners of the land,
Winds would blow them in to stand.
“Such a neighbor, curse and blight!
Beelzebub each moonlit night,
Hellish pack with sulphur breath—
Every eve a fiendish death!
Shame and sin have grown too wide—
Let these horrors be denied!”
Though the monk was mild by nature,
Shunning strife and confrontation,
Never one for wrath or rant,
One dark night he’d had enough.
Slipped on sandals, grabbed his cloak,
Woke his rooster with a poke:
“Brother bird, just look around—
They bring storms upon our ground!
See, a tear rolls down my cheek
For the havoc that they wreak.
Come, let’s find what makes that howl
That torments each nightly prowl.”
So they climbed that haunted height—
Monk and rooster in the night.
No true path, just bramble thick,
Branches gaping, dark and slick,
Moonlight glared like dead men’s eyes,
Graveyard chill in bone did rise.
Still they walked on, slow and steady,
Till—suddenly—the scene was ready…
What they saw stole breath away,
Clutched their throats in sharp dismay,
Knees went weak, the feathers rose,
Horror gripped them head to toes.
What a sight—beyond belief!
Hellish kin in bold relief!
Witches wild with tangled hair,
Swept on broomsticks through the air,
Gathered on the mount’s cold crown,
Where a demon, dark and brown,
Greeted each in ghastly tone,
Calling them to dusk’s dark throne.
With first star, the lord of blight
Summoned them to sin and night—
Danced and gambled, shrieked with glee,
Feasted till the morning’s plea.
When the dawn began to break,
And the sun rose o’er the lake,
From the hilltop loud and clear,
Came the rooster’s crow to hear.
Witches fixed him with a stare—
“Come, dear cock, fly through the air!
Our old brooms are worn and lame,
You shall bear us now in game!”
But the speckled, valiant knight
Cried: “Not on your life, you blight!”
Then he pecked the witches’ faces,
Pulled their skirts in fiery races,
Flapped his wings and struck with might—
No one dares to fight a cock in fight!
Witches shrieked in fear and pain,
Off they fled across the plain,
With them all the demons scattered—
“By a rooster be thus battered?!
By a rooster lose our breath?!
Better flee than meet such death!”
Sparks flew high like blazing spears,
And they never came in years.
Then the bearded monk, devout,
Built a chapel, strong and stout.
Baked some buns in sweet delight,
Soft and golden, pure and light.
Shaped them like the fearless cock
Who had chased the fiends amok.
To this day, in that fair town,
Rooster buns bring old tales down.
Bożena Gałuszewska