As the Vistula wraps herself on her banks
When the water feels a bit much to handle,
I turn to my words; for a touch of compassion.
Surface waves, signatures of unstable realities
Appear from, and merge into oblivion
As newer raindrops mimic hope, excitation.
My search for meaning braids my way
Back onto itself, swinging freely in space
But knotted strictly through time.
Who am I in this grand flow of worldlines?
A diffuser? Or a dancing cosmic string -
With its ends absorbed in a strange dynamics?
As I prepare to sleep in Luxembourg tonight,
Krakow puts a blanket of fog over herself
As if to re-iterate that I took my flight
Last night, when the time seemed right.
Hence, let's move on from the banks
There's a flood-warning,
Though Krakow's (supposedly) globally safe.
The recent pattern breaks
And the deeper form re-exerts itself.
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