Karmelicka Street, a sky-blue tram, the sun,

September, the first day after vacation,

some have come home from long trips,

armored divisions enter Poland,

children off to school dressed in their best,

white and navy blue, like sails and sea,

like memory and grapes and inspiration.

The trees stand at attention, honoring

the power of young minds that haven’t yet

known fire and sleep and can do what they want,

nothing can stop them

(not counting invisible limits).

The trees greet the young respectfully,

but you—be truthful—envy

that starting out, that setting off

from home, from childhood, from the sweet darkness

that tastes of almonds, raisins, and poppyseeds,

you stop in the store for bread

and then walk home, unhurried,

whistling and humming carelessly;

your school still hasn’t started,

the teachers have gone, the masters remain,

distant as summer, your sleep sails through the clouds

across the sky.

Read more http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/poetry/2007/10/08/071008po_poem_zagajewski#ixzz1vTCref86