Compulsive glass doors open and close
And wide-open their mouth once again
To suck me into some crowded stills,
A course that I cannot prevent.
Familiar formation of welcome words,
Bare void must be covered or filled.
Bustling activity, babble of voices,
Lips showing meaningless grins.
I enter the lift that climbs up to the cell,
Is there sanctuary for a while?
A click-clack and yet another door snaps,
Yellow light and a telly that whirrs.
Rectangular forms, built up and arranged
To fit ever revolving schemes,
Still no rapport is there, no homelike feel,
Instead yearning and loneliness sneer.
Looking out of the window I seek for a clue
Or a possible hint of fate,
But Warsaw´s front remains cold and hostile
For my keen lucky streak has passed by.
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