From Poland to Paris and back to Poland
People are moving, but the heart never leaves
One year or two years?
or
It's a long ordeal cut into fragments of the past
The Cold War, the smoke of gunpowder, the fountain at midnight in Paris soaks the first and last empty turntable
"The pendulum kills time," she says
The shady story is five minutes long, and the Cold War has decades
He waited from day to night at the border
until
Slavic handsome braids turned into wise Stalin
Fantasia on the piano is honed in the barracks
"I'm yours," she said
everything goes back to that broken
small church in poland
that winter of 1949
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