It happens in winter, at dawn, that a taxi takes you to the airport (yet another festival). Half-awake, you recollect that Andrzej Bursa used to live right here, just outside. He once wrote: the poet suffers for millions. It is still dark at the bus stop, a few people huddle in the cold, seeing them you think, lucky souls, you only suffer for yourselves.
Already have an account? Log in
Want to keep reading? Join our community:
Free Preview
Sign up with your email address, and access two free articles per month.
We hope you've enjoyed your free articles!
Become a full subscriber for only $50/year, (33% off cover price).
Thank you for supporting great writing.
Subscribe Today