And the façades of Warsaw bared
their scrubbed-up skins; liveried waiters
offered nothing on the menu; bath water
rusted; the country roads were calm,
a past I sought long overgrown,
the state of currency still volatile,
human traces vague, all guesses wild.
Nothing left to find; nothing and no one.
But oh, the language: soft-tongued,
apologetic; those legends of tracks
pointing towards infinity; haystacks,
horse-drawn carts; disappearing villages
where elders with wizened sensibilities,
surely hungry for redemption, would
offer water, sanctuary and bread.
Perhaps they remembered. Perhaps
going about their rural business
they thought of all those trains; night
and day, the passing of human freight.
But then again, perhaps not.