Guess my thoughts, I say,
to myself (because there is no one else I could ask)
and I answer:
It would feel a little strange to be a Rumanian stray dog
in Constanța
but I could do worse,
chasing cars
chasing fleas
chasing my own shadow as long as there is a sun in the sky.
Have you ever seen the peony’s bud?
It’s not much more than a tight oval.
But when the bud opens up,
the greatest petals
and carpels
and stigma
burst
out.
And while I inhaled the sweet rose’s scent
I couldn’t help but think that it’s a bit like the mind.
There is so much that the cranium
hides from the world.
You never
know.
I would spend 3000 ₩ on a pack of rice chips to feed the seagulls
and I would have their screams accompany me down the beach.
I would walk across to have a look on the other side (and maybe I would stay there.)
I would wait for the sun to set just to see the magnolia at nightfall (between burial mounds, it is death and short term life, as always.)
And I would be a Koi in cold pond water.
Sometimes when you take the road leading south
even in March
there is snow instead of yellow cornelia blossoms.
But you just have to zip up your spring jacket
and wrap your scarf around your neck for a second time.
Maybe tomorrow
there again
will be
sun.
The sun was out in the midmorning and I hope he found something interesting (probably a bug.)
I hope he will have someone to wrap his arms around when his heart gets heavy.
I hope everybody found their shoes again (or at least came to a mutual exchange)
and that he had a great day after all.
I hope they really liked the sound of flags in March wind
and that their next lives are going to be so much better.
I hope that he had all the right tools to fix what needed mending.
I hope we remember love.
I really do.
On a mild mid-march day’s afternoon,
(the blossom was yet to come)
many a selfie was taken.
a teddy was carried through the Namdaeum market
(and I think it was half his owner’s size)
and someone finished his lunch and was pretty satisfied with it.
While some shared with pigeons
(colour-coordinated)
others guarded fluffy pyjamas. I might have gotten one (or not, would you?)
In the evening
the weather cooled down
and I found beasts (plastic paked)
who would have known.
Winter came late this time and
as I strolled Warsaw’s cobblestone pavement
as my hands were pressed against the insides of my pockets
as I found snowflakes in the corners of my squinted eyes, making my sight blurry,
I met a lady outside of her shop.
She stood there and had a smoke, a cold one. A smoke with wind in the back of her neck and around her ankles.
„Warsaw is rather cruel to you“, I said, but I guess she didn’t hear me.
Maybe I didn’t say it out loud.
Did you hear the knocking in your ears
as you passed the frozen potholes
it must have been
your own heartbeat
for there was nobody else in this world.
Cold leaked through the window frame and there
not moving not turning its head not rubbing its legs
sat a fly.
I bend to examine it closely.
Its wings were a perfectly symmetrical veil.
As I took a picture, I realised that it was soon to die and felt blasphemous.
Sometimes something gets stronger, shortly before it dies.
It rebels against the end, no one would have guessed.
Like the leaves. Look at the leaves.
Or like the sentiments of a year that is counting down the weeks. They creep over my back, while I stand looking over the Oslo Fjord, while I swish through the bright yellow dots in Slottsparken, while I squint at the sun.
I watch the last revolution of the trees; their end is marvelous.
