Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne

45. False Maps

Long flight without alarm. Carried by clouds to a secluded spot on the lone border between three worlds, he lands. And then at night he strokes the alpine glacier, puts his tongue to Jungfrau’s breast, because a great green river that talks to him, that squirms and spits up foam now cuts across the city. Of three worlds we know but two, this third is fog, concealed inside your locket, in a moldy nut. So with his tongue each day he checks the fate of those who’ll sleep upon the river’s bed, each day pretends he’s tourist, scholar, art fanatic,

each day buys a map and scans it for a spot, a printing error, a false country.

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