Morning train from Wrocław (née Breslau) — so like a musty movie — a nun silent with God’s love
where Wałęsa may have prayed before the fall; a honeymoon at the Grand Hotel — Kraków, I’m in love.
Post-modern Chopin interpretations; ambling hand-in-hand past star-lit, street-lined trams;
wild boar and beet borscht; night river sailing, we sat mooring kisses in the rain, on the Vistula in love.
Mickiewicz rises romantically; gothic St. Mary’s trumpets call; a hard cafe of rock;
Europe’s oldest bookstore; clopping carriages pass Tatra mountain stalls; couples lean, like us, on fountains, in love.
Kazimierz stands tall, a bullet-ridden star, graffitied beauty past Wawel’s walls
where heads attend, and Kaczyński sleeps above the dragon’s den; on across Piłsudski Bridge where Oskar stowed away love.
Bergen-Belsen to Auschwitz, oblivious tourists V-signing — Arbeit macht frei — railroad scars on grass; brick fingers, like lost limbs, breaking for air;
dark hair mountains; standing panic cells; an anguish of shoes, soulless and stripped of love.
© 2017 The Wasted Love Song
In response to: napowrimo, day thirteen (ghazal)