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„Don’t bite my finger. Look where I am pointing“ – „Beiss mir nicht in den Finger. Schau, wohin er zeigt.“

Warren McCullough in Paul Watzlawick: Die Möglichkeit des Andersseins

On Swimming

           Adam Zagajewski          (1945-2021)

The rivers of this country are sweet as a troubadour’s song, the heavy sun wanders westward on yellow circus wagons.

Little village churches hold a fabric of silence so fine and old that even a breath could tear it.

I love to swim in the sea, which keeps talking to itself in the monotone of a vagabond who no longer recalls exactly how long he’s been on the road. Swimming is like prayer: palms join and part, join and part, almost without end.

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