Childhood

Sitting under the partially collapsed roof of the old sawmill, watching grass snakes slither over the now flooded floor, I recall the days when this place and the roaring lumber loaders would wake me from sleep. The hum of machines…

Being born in Poland in the 70s—could there be anything more beautiful? For a child, censorship doesn’t exist. There’s nothing to hinder their exploration of the world. A world that had come back to life after the war. The wounds…