for Jerzy Nasierowski
this city does not easily lend itself to poetry
in the meat and brick of all its history
Warsaw looms over the Polish sky
defiantly grey and proud
the ghosts of heroes and villains and victims
all tend to forget the deep charred lines between them
their palimpsest of blood blending into a thin film
a wide cement crust hides
very few secrets these days
often, I think back to the first time I stumbled
onto Nowy Świat awash in late Spring sunlight
airy chatter of pedestrians echoing off glass shopfronts
their soft footfalls on the cobblestone
heading towards the triumph of Old Town
their city has turned into a defiant poem
about soot-filled skies clearing
blue waters washing away history’s muck
and new pages filled in the book of the living
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