I remember you. Yeah, you. You stood next to the burning acacia bush. Hard to forget.
Whilst the girl stood before the podium, clutching her tome, a man held her tresses with scissors poised. A confusing ancient image.
Nowhere else is where she’d rather be. Snip the dead ends and make the sheep shorn.
Hopelessly old to be so young.
And, in dreams did I endlessly empty the carafe into the stone basin. Naked and milky white liquid ever-flowing. My eyes trained upon a single stone upon the ground. A star, a wizard wearing a vizard.
Two pillars of sycamores framing me.
I heard your caw.
I answered with mine own trill. Basil tinted and chai scented.
The folk of Zakopane take for granted the mountain air surrounding. Snug in chalets insulated against the Kasprowy Wierch. While opening the parcel, I confuse feeling wretched with the sensation of a heart being wratched. And, all at the sight of the Slovak postmark.
Because it makes me recall the not exactly cream cheese they call qvark. White cheese paired with fruit and a terrace. A simple ripe raspberry atop to boot.
Prattle and pitter patter.
Refreshed at being carefree sans carelessness.
You are comfortable, he says.
No. You just find me cozy.
And, they threw out all the words I firmly etched with his letterpress.
Into the depths, off cliffs of Tatras,
The Fool forever falls.