It is a rather fine tale, of those who run from their hearts,
engines fueled by the beating of what lies within,
what lies we tell ourselves; consecration of identity.
Stars lay among us, unrestricted by the bourgeoisie,
we lay among ourselves, drinking the fine wine.
Consciousness, here in the modern age, existentialism,
taught are the restrictions in the golden era,
fine lines filling creases in the face; taught.
Consciousness is the better part of non-existence,
where swallows join the wheat stalk,
and birds record their sigh.
It is truly an achievement,
to mark your identity,
and say, you have truly understood.
Anna Rozwadowska 2019