I used to run around my grandfather’s apartment when I was a child. He was a painter and there
was one painting that captivated me. It was a portrait of an old man leaning on a walking stick in
front of an old hut.
It was a portrait of Bartek. Bartek of hell. My grandfather painted it from an old photograph.
My father told me the legend of Bartek. There was a famous mound Bartek had built. As it was in
the Włoszakowice and Boszkowo area, where I would spend a string of a dozen or so of my most
important summer vacations, he even took me there to show me.
It was there that I would run around the swamps for the first time. It was there that I went around
the lake by boat on my own for the first time. And it was there that I would discover places that only
a few ever knew about.
I wrote my first songs there.
That Bartek of hell left a mound to survive him.
I will leave words.
*of hell meaning an isolated area situated far from settlements