The late Polish poet Adam Zagajewski whose work rests on the foundation of exceptional Polish poets of the twentieth century, but whom I find more approachable, in that I can sense my own life in his works, published —
The Wanderer
I enter the waiting room of a station.
Not a breath of air.
I have a book in my pocket,
someone’s poems, traces of inspiration.
At the entrance, on benches, two tramps and a drunkard
(or two drunkards and a tramp).
At the other end, an elderly couple, very elegant, sit
staring somewhere above them, toward Italy and the sky.
We have always been divided. Mankind, nations,
waiting rooms.
I stop for a moment,
uncertain which suffering I should
join.
Finally, I take a seat in between
and start reading. I am alone but not lonely.
A wanderer who doesn’t wander.
The revelation
flickers and dies. Mountains of breath, close
valleys. The dividing goes on
east of the fog 