Very rarely,
but it happens I come up with books,
which were left by the author without return.

It seems –
in an early-spring noontide, sun beamed on empty sheets of paper,
and the writer, in the peak of idea’s ripening,
left the line undone, wore his work boots
and moved to another seeding.

Or maybe –
grandchildren came from the city and ran to his knees pushing each other,
neighbor’s chicken crossed the fence,
and a scrawny dog started barking all over the yard.

Perhaps much simpler –
a postman, a media inspector,
a Jehovah Witness or a  social surveyor knocked the door,
boiling milk over spilled,
a ball hit the window,
a scorpion ran under his feet,
or at the very moment of inspiration’s blossom
his heart was pierced with a long-gone memory...

There are thousands of reasons to justify
the sudden absence of the writer in the area,
which leaves next pages with the same amount of freedom.

_Translated by Pawel Sakowski