Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne
It hides in-between the birches. It flickers. Hide and seek. How mystery winks. An apparition of deer. The candle of his tail back into dark. The chinks in the forest. The winks of light into zebras on the forest floor. Stripes undulate into currents. Trees smuggle the Sacred. But the souls kept skipping into leaves, bark, wrinkles, fissures, stalks, husks. The trees, the smugglers of cemeteries with rings of psalms. They compete with children on All Souls’ Day. From many winged seeds the taproots hum the Book of Hours. They dart like finches. There is no way to fix them. They hide in cracks and whispers. They listen. To what is not. They are brief and violent. They unconceal. They burst forth. Theirs is unveiling. They will light the continent for me. Tigers of wrath and light. The trees are not without Kaddish. Mimosas, Pagodas, Figs and Rowans. The soul composed of very small atoms produces small dream-stations.
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