|A branch laden with fruit walnut still green, like a promise. There are the views of my room in Krakow, the capital of the Matopolska, the "Little Poland", the historical origin of the great Slavic nation that between Germany and Russia, exercises as Latin between Slavs and Slavic among Latins. |
It seems that the branch wants to enter when I open the window, in the long twilight, lengthy summer here in parallel with the North. But do not want to enter as a threat but a promise. As a promise of fertility that will become in late summer, after the good season, starting just before the big cold winter of Northern Europe, in a vital rate forever, constant and repetitive.
Walnuts, still green, and then come to fall off the branch, the branch of my window. I will no longer be in Krakow, a city that in Poland is like Vic in Catalonia, but they repeated the same.