Childhood in Poland.
Carefree and warm.
We flounder in the water like beavers
and although leeches pinch us in the calves
we build the dam.
The river is dreaming.
Reflecting as in a mirror
the familiar faces
of friends and loved ones,
they forgot me,
their children have grown up
and gone into the unknown.
The river is dreaming.
And I’m still standing on the footbridge.
I’m afraid to jump.
Cross the dam of time.
