I have just returned from a walk with my beloved hound on foot, which has a good heart, tenderly-shaped by the Erlking dog’s heartlet. I’m feeling very well at home, as well as blissful. I have a light heart now. It’s frosty outside. To wit, it’s the degrees below zero, as if the Winter Queen ruled without any snow.

There is not a starry night. A moon is not visible. I dream of starlings of philosophers in a sibyl-like heaven. I have not seen a red sky in the evening, such an Apollonianly marvelous charm, a world of druids. All night long, my dreams will be live in my dreamy soul. Afterwards, I will sleep in a meek silence. I want to say to you, my tender reader, a manifesto of my dearest dreamiest being.

As far as I’m concerned:

My immortal soul is typically German. I am able to feel a sempiternity, each poetical winglings, namely: Apollonianly tender-eternal vans that philosophize about dawns of the ontology of poetries. My poetry, like a poesy of Poseidon’s dreamery, heralds fulfillment of each of the stars, morning starlets, and shooting stars. Rilke likes me in the eternal time. Goethe said to me he was proud of my meek poem, under the title “Prometheus.”

In effect, my body is Polish. I can design neither robots nor spaceships such the Americans. My parents, my home, my language are Polish. My Polish blood seems to be indeed red. My nation knows mourning and death, wars and subservience. This time is my Polish time, the ontology and logic of a starry night above the Polish homeland.

In my heart, the Japanese Basho lives, who likes the melancholic fantasy of a handful of haikus. My heart beats in the rhythm of dancing samurais enchanted by each morning glow. My haikus are being carried by some metaphysical traces of the eternity, which loves my gorgeous three verses. In each haiku, the beauty of siren-like dreamery-miracle comes true, as if the Japanese soul had told me: “Be thankful valedictorian of a sheening time!”

Outside the body, these are magical romantic notions, which keep me one step closer to heaven, namely the gorgeous English poesy. Some Herculean muses bring me into a woodland in the midst of England, next to a druidical fireplace. The druidic altar is also my heart, my whole being of the sui generis-miracle. English muses dancing under the most philosophical stars such as my English hound, the mixed dog, between cocker spaniel and field spaniel, my houndlet.