Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne
54. The Gulf Stream
Something drives us, it’s true, this stream of air that makes our bolide race along the freeway— Whose lips release it? Where does it lead? Who guides it in the dead of night, this discourse dispatched in darkness opened by our tongues, with one clear sound turning its lock, finding its law of increase? When we skim along the wrong surface of night, of language, someone fixes our commas. Someone guards the pulse of April, of these strokes that can cut through the inky depths. Which law commands the sea to rise and which preserves the body as
in amber? Superstitiously I make these marks, an offering for you, for air, for fire.
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