When I Return From War

I am older
than my older brother.
Someone I don’t know
is leaving him flowers
writing a book
slumped over the keyboard.
I know he loved the sea
and had secret longings.
Under his ribs
he was fighting some war.
That’s all I know
about him.
That’s how much we can know
about each other anyhow.
Being so inaccessible.
Like two strangers in a passenger car.
Each with his own hope
between the intertwined fingers.
With hope unspoken.
My brother is far away.
Warsaw where I was born is so far away.
You your river and your dog are far away.
Your war is far away
and so alien to me.
Piotrkowska Street is on fire
and the walls are crumbling down on passers-by.
Why did you tell me all those things?
Every time I fall asleep
I walk into a nightmare.
Love is a serious crime.
You know it best.