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polski (Polish)
Scattered notes in a notebook. Torn pages for shopping lists, crossed out reflections. But there are more and more poems on the phone. Meanwhile, the red-gold-burgundy is getting closer. And who would have guessed that she is the one who chills out my chaos every year?
She lights cinnamon candles and turns on jazz to stop me on one amazing thought. Then I discover what I miss. I want to volunteer at the wonderful Baboró International Children’s Art Festival. And I will be there soon.
But first, I will polish the bitten nails and strengthen them with warm yellow. I’ll let Oscar Jerome go ahead to the bus. And then the face of the city will be reflected in the spoon. But it will be a different city. I am good enough – the door creaks. Beige like rye. Pasta sprinkled with nasturtiums will transform me into Copenhagen.
An orange scarf around the neck – closeness to my friend. Copper corduroys resistant to artificiality, hot chocolate with almond milk combined with the smile of barista Dixi from the little Jungle Café, a golden croissant with a crispy crust like autumn leaves on the path here and now.
