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.
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.
I came across a street, more a lane, let’s say, the corner of a lane,
and there on the wall were writings.
Old ones and new ones.
It made me sad to look at them for no other reason
than
that nothing stays and once no one will remember.
Ich weiß nicht, wo du die letzte Zeit über warst
und ich will es auch nicht wissen,
wenn ich ehrlich bin,
ist es gut gewesen ohne dich.
Aber jetzt bist du zurück und die Leute freuen sich und gehen hinaus und sagen Schau, wie schön es ist in der Sonne und brechen Kirschblüten ab und stellen sie zuhause in eine Vase.
Herr Träumer, Herr Weltenerwecker, ich möchte doch viel lieber schlafen.
irisgassenbauer 