Poem by Małgorzata Borzeszkowska
The letter fell on emptiness.
November resurrected as usual
I lose letters every year,
every autumn I break my wings.
The letter came to a post restante,
no one remembers what it is anymore.
I lose consistency just as every year,
I go on foot to find common sense.
The letters fly over the fall,
above a cloud of red leaves,
like every year I clean up
my own mess-
a poem that I dreamed up in the summer.
November crawls under the threshold,
spills into a golden puddle,
like every year I send letters,
I have too many poems in me,
so I send them, I throw them onto water,
they sail in boats made from the beech seeds.
The letter fell, shrank in itself.
November goes towards winter.