Bezpłatny fragment - Polish Bethlehem

Książeczka pisana prozą poetycką, opublikowana po raz pierwszy w 2020 roku

Polish Bethlehem

I can already see the star, a thousand of themby now. They look at me from the night. The homeless sat down at the Lord’s table. Above them, eternity, galaxies. The moon blows at their faces to make them warmer.

A despised man, and cloaked in glory. Suffering raises him up in himself. The street is dirty, the street is long, lead to nowhere, covered with sacramental bread — the world is white. What a chill this Christmas Eve. It will only get colder. But the most important thing is that you have a comet of hope in you, because whoever had everything here, above this earthly fate, will be naked this time. Happiness was lost on the way.

I collect shattered stars from the pavement. I sit down on the curb. Homeless people seem to feel sorry for me. It is a pity that most people cannot see their hearts. They were too sensitive, which is why they are in the dustbin of life.

I ignite hope for the first time. But the flame won’t burn. I put the last match in my pocket, it’s wet. I am an existentially homeless person, I have fears. Nevertheless, the reel of events is spinning somehow, life rushes on, a car falls off the road at a bend… It is a constant landscape of events. Until recently, there were a lot of programs devoted to culture on television. There was a lot of airtime to get to know the man. Today we are all homeless. We are glued to this exhibitions. How the world shimmers in the city after All Saints. From the alleys of colorful candles, I now walk along the milky way of Christmas exhibitions, straight from the cemetery. Christmas tree after Christmas tree, like there were multiplying. Stars are nothing. There are more Christmas trees. They are supposed to create an atmosphere of shopping frenzy. Full of ads, homeless people and folks shopping. Some have everything and some have nothing. We are staring at the artificial sky, which is made of colorful icicles. There are false stars everywhere, they cover the sky and people.

You’re somewhere in the middle, maybe that’s the worst kind of homelessness. The wind howls within me as if in an empty field. I’m breaking up in myself. These are just existential fears. Recently I have been suffering from them more intensively. They werealways somewhereinside me. I think every human being is born with the identity of a homeless person. We should understand those people whose fate one day may suddenly become our own. Yes, I know homeless professors who have not endured the blunt life and painful family relationships. Every homeless person has a family, and this is where homelessness usually begins, with the pain that someone nurture within himself. But I can go beyond myself, but I prefer to wander around Krakow late in the evening like a stray cat.

Puddles were silvering in the face of the moon as I walkalong Venice Street. It seemed unusual to me. The Moon Sonata flowed from the old building. Someone was playing the piano beautifully. Each of us carries some undeveloped talents, and if we lived differently, we would be rooted in relationships, and therefore in life.