Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne
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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.