Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne
While my heart worships its muse once again a mud-island rises from a deeply troubled lake…
Past, present, or future? It’s all one in the end; I live in my own time, denying everything.
What is poetry without being? Material! And being without poetry – material unformed.
Like one touched by the seven fingers of hell; his faith is lost, it never does return.
I heard the silent word, with eyes enflamed, and like reality, it did strike my fancy:
that the Lord is mighty, and I think defenseless, rather only my rotten soul is endless.
And in my adult gene-helix lives the child, the Body and Soul Universe of Poetry.
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