I live next to a rubbish dump, an ideal place to learn Latin. So I tried and I was lucky: among broken glasses and crushed cans, I found an Ovid.
His fingers were broken like bottles. His eyes, his letters, were grey and faded like beer labels. His robe was torn like the paper which covered his heart. And his skin was nothing more than decaying trash bags of muses.
I felt sorry for him. He, the great poet, he – the book of love - was nothing more than another bit of rubbish left to be forgotten, smiling slightly and drinking the rain’s cheap wine.
I felt sorry, so I tried to help him. I wanted to grab him, but my hands were small and I was weak. There was nothing I could do when he was taken by the old man in a bright jacket.
Yesterday, while looking for a poem, I looked through my window. I saw five big, black cats hunting a snake (poor creature surrounded by the fur and tails of scorn).
One of them held a golden dagger – almost as big as its paw. The other one held a big axe and the third one was shooting a gun.
The snake had no chance, but it had to try.
It bit one of the cats, and for a second I thought that a miracle would happen. It didn’t. The dagger was too short, the axe missed, but the gun was sure. Just a small hole in the reptile’s head. Soon after, the cats were dancing on his very fresh grave.
I closed my eyes. “It couldn’t be real," I said to myself. So when I looked again, I noticed only five fingerprints and a bit of dirt that someone left on the glass. Everything is a matter of focus. And the only thing I could see was my horrified reflection.
Paweł Kuziemski is a Polish writer, poet and playwright. He writes about everything unusual because - as he claims - “the most important purpose of writing is to have it written.” He recently completed a Creative Writing Masters at Lancaster University, and he is currently preparing for his Ph.D. Like all good writers, he owns a cat, and he is not afraid to use it (but most of his friends say that the truth is that the cat owns him!).