A Writer's Ruminations

I had the dream where you read your own poems,
Like those written sometime ago,
only these were in the grey book
written after death…

And you look finer, paler and tinier every passing moment,
Then you disappear.

The last to vanish were your hands
And only the poems were left unharmed
And in the poems was left
someone’s heart.

– Grażyna Chrostowska, “The Dream" translated by Jarek Gajewski (via ophelia sings)