Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski
On My Rocks perched just above the ocean’s channel a night could be a magic place. Summer time especially. The city is still alive till wee hours with happy revelers, some are dancing and singing onboard small tourists boats. The lights of the city dance on the surface of the water and above it is one huge reflector of the stage – full Moon. It slowly sweeps the stage from one end to the other. And behind you, on the shore, in the shrubs and wild flowers comes the other song, the song of old time – the cicada.
Moons and Sycamore tree
One step, check the stones carefully!
They might be slippery in peach black night
and the water below is not the best for swimming.
But is it water indeed down there?
It looks strange with all the lights shining
on the surface, dancing like crazy lady
listening to an old country song from Tennessee.
The moon comes and looks down at the water.
It’s as surprised, as I am, seeing so many of it’s
faces mirrored in it. Two moons, four, six…
It screams at the water: that’s enough!
You make me dizzy with your witchery!
No one plays banjo anymore, only the one-note
song of the cicadas: I’m here, come, give me a kiss!
Oh, I have seen many moons on summery nights,
six and twelve at once, when I was drunk with love.
I have sung the songs of night birds and early birds,
when sunrise came with another kiss again.
Now no more I sit under the Sycamore tree,
the night breeze sways in long grass,
Savanah sings its sweet longing song.
Crying song, the Moon above is cold.
/B. Pacak-Gamalski, 20.07.2024/
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