Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne

XII. In the pull of antagonisms

I’m young, my life has been but fancy, what a hated peasant, alien and stray, a flung-out frozen splotch of standing snow.

The Hungarian gets sloshed and my thoughts bode ill – worries churn – being and transience – I’d drink, though my worker-self won’t allow good wine – swill-blinded, I stomached it, and it was fine. Thus I barely lived, knowing this country’s a carcass-well – imbalance is the Hungarian pain-foible behind which, the deeply-rubbed spine of truth – I don’t know who pushed on what – new will, duties - then misery, self-knowledge, zeal – whatever – my soul-pair wants to while away – and I wait for night-darkness, somewhere among oaks.


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