Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne

16. Sanctuary in the Mountains

At dawn I sail away in bed while four constellations sleep in place, foremost the Dog. It gently turns, the house as well revolving. A wizard in his hollow plies the guests with mead, a traitor steals account books for him, plays dead, a knife appears, a stain in bed. Oh these verbal duels: black rose, white gloves, poor rhymes. Lying across from one another for years, will we be able to reach out? Others can laugh: they have no nation over there. The wizard knew, his books well reconciled and nothing for the tax man, only gossip

under the desk, in poems, in a less than fleeting glance, a handshake held too long.


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