When the diluvial Polish night thickens into a hard walnut shell, I cease to breathe and I observe. The mountain blocks the view, a huge black lump tucked into the bottom of a black lake. The scene travels through the night slowly like a history before language, and painfully like a rain worm through one’s spinal chord. Then deep down squeezed inside the capillary of night I notice a faint light climbing up the incised mountain path. Someone is going somewhere, saving the world.
© translated by Damir Šodan