To Derick from Bartlomiej Bania

Solo, Island, Solitude

I drift into the unknown
to a place on a map shown
an island, so small, almost unseen
can be noticed in between the bluish green
I prepare my boat and raise the sails
remembering about the smallest details
the length of the sound of solitude
brings me into a kind of mood
I go there alone, solo I drift
to a place that's called home
you await me there


or so they say


filled with hope
backpack of fear
I cross my heart
and hope to die
when I knock
on the doors
of your island's hut
will you answer me
will I find you there
I sit and wait
into the doorknob I stare


By Bartlomiej Bania