THE YOUTH Poem by Piotr Sommer

On the way there wasn't a single star
and I, hearing nothing,
was taking it right there
into the past: the end of the day
ricocheted off the present,
grew monstrously
and was becoming legend.
Then everything
belonged to a different civilization:
a wasteland of housing, harsh fluorescent lights,
and that enticing, cool breath of wind
(maybe it was the wind that lifted it all into the past, not me,
because I wouldn't even know how
to blow in both directions)