To begin at the beginning...
It is night, the liquorice sky embezzled with northern jewels studies the town below as cobblestone paths wind through warm gouralé huts, unsettled meadows and the icicle breeze, blind navy flowers, the sour growth of jagody in early spring. Cemetery wax drips on brown glass, decaying Żywieć décor. The mountains move in a childish sleep, imagination on the jagged peaks and frost in his beard, the metal Jesus for Sunday prayer. But for now watch them sleep, they are lulled by the songs of the peasants.
You see them sleep; only you can see them sleep.
Hush, for the men and women and boys of the town, the housekeeper and wife and grandmother, woodchopper, bartender, horse cart driver, sheep milker, violin boy, big bosomed waitress, gypsy, drunkard snoring outside, wrinkled face, shepherd, pierogi maker, shoemaker, cheese maker, mushroom girl, fox fur seller, hiker, husband, hallelujah and the howling dog, shut eyed and wide asleep. And in these dreams are candlelit nights of mischief, for the middle-aged farmer a drink and flirting lights with ribs and flesh and for his daughter the distorted reoccurrence that her plastic be replaced with burnished gold. And in these dreams, scavenger kittens sleep on feathered quilts, twittering wings scoop beaks of wriggling squeam, and bones are buried under the world.
You see what they see; only you can see what they see.
Listen. You can hear the pacemaker heart, the breath of excitement, the rush of the quiet town as they dance and play and sing. The chatter of creaking shutters through the streets, through the town square and the horse-whip streetlamps arched and the trot-trot-trop-clop clock ticking one. Your ears buzz with murmurings and zzz-zzz-zzz of the dreary eyed men and the sleeping bumble and brumby. Tonight buds sprout amongst ancient granite Copernicus, through Wyspiánskiego with the streaked, chimney-grey cement and through Mrowce with the dull church watercolour and beige carvings and the smell of lace and shavings and dew.
Listen. Only you can hear the slow, silent storyteller pass through the street and the stable, the drip of the sink, the crumpled sheets, larch cones and silver string shaken to the ground. Look. Only you can see the soft exhale of the snug newborn and the invisible sky. The teapot, the butterknife, Kielbasa on the shelf, the door, the overhanging palm cross. Only you can feel the emotion, only you can hear and see the dreams, the fantasies and longings, the tones and colours of lust and love, the wishes and beliefs, the depth of their thoughts.
Inspiration: Under Milk Wood: Dylan Thomas
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