Krakow's Kisses

Wet cobblestones glisten with kisses. They wait for the red, thorny rose buds; the holding hands, opening fluttering eyes that gaze in expectation. The lip red rose stem and kiss.

Memories of Krakow's kisses still make me smile. On the tram, the Market Square, under doorways, along paths, on my walk home and in moments of patient waiting for no one in the rain. When snow fell, the kisses looked warm and glowing. The red buds small glowing hearts in the hands of patient cavaliers and little bits of hope in girls’ burning eyes.

Kobieta, kochana, moja droga.
The words they expected to hear.
Mi amor, toda mi vida, mia sola.
Oh, how that kiss warms me still.

When spring bloomed and flowers showered the planty, they lovingly stayed behind and around the park benches – held, supported, surrounded, and begged the impatient kisses to flood them with their fiery fresh conversation. With their hands, backs, eyes, fingers, palms, bodies all groping for that – khisssss . . . It would follow me all day, guiding my thoughts along Krakow's secret little paths. The city's intimacy, its impatience, its unabated fleshy desire, provocative teasing . . .

Even on the tram, as I looked back to catch a glimpse of the groping couple in full oblivion of everything, their passion and excitement filled my own heart.

When it rained they gave roses, when it snowed, they kept warm, when it bloomed – beds, closets, cabinets, walls, tables and floors couldn't contain them. They took the fruit of those long winter roses to the springtime’s freshly painted green parks and benches.

Mon amour, je t'embrasse, seulement toi . . .

The passion overflowed into the streets. Krakow's torrent of tourists couldn't resist the fragrant draw of fresh melted chocolate brimming with heavy cream, dimly lit underground cafés, Alchemia's mysterious underground secrets, its whispering walls and creaky wooden chairs and tables. Nor refuse the all-seeing eyes of the head resting in the market square, its furtive glance directed by little hands, feet, faces, and ears of crowding children who always dreamed of crawling through the safe secrets of the thoughts of a statue of a hollow resting head.

Even the pigeons – those old wobbling guardians of the ancient city – still promised to keep the young lovers' secrets.

My Krakow, my love, don't despair.
Your kisses are gentle and fair.
Your passion preserves you from fear,
If memories still hold you near.