Pack up and leave behind Warsaw.

Falter along the moss and mud,

You are pastoral;

Sequential,

An ode I heed

And a footprint I forever follow.

For you,

The you who picks ends of branches,

Avoids the truth laid bare,

Who breathes fire yet cups softness;

The tall child who never grew.

You observe it,

Their perverse quips,

The miniature twinkles,

How many small white petals have fallen,

Her name engraved,

The wary looks,

A woven mess that hugs it all,

Salute their singing

And their garrulous homilies;

How unlike they are of Warsaw,

How much better is Warsaw?

I cannot stand to hear any more of Warsaw.

She is there – you know – behind the trees.

She exists still, a whisper away.

Waiting in limbo, crowned in Murraya

Canonised, so-called libertine, beloved chick;

She looks just like the parks of Warsaw.

I see Dante’s behind you.

Flickers and licks of a cat-like tongue,

Rough and uncaring,

So stoic and immeasurable;

You alone stand tallest of them all.

I know I will never forget it.

How frostbitten you can be,

Unable to look at old film –

I also talk to those who aren’t there –

I write for a response that remains undelivered.

Our cups of tae sputter out the last it has to offer

The sweets, cakes, and chocolates simply no longer suffice;

We are no longer spring

Nor are we forgiving.

Written by Jasper Brady.

Jasper Brady is an aspiring young writer who has been reading since before he could, who can often be found wandering the folklore and historical sections of bookstores.

@seasparo