There was a time
when the signs spoke German,
when the streets echoed
with other names,
and the mountains stood
between empires and borders
that shifted like clouds.

Bad Ziegenhals--
a town of spas and silence,
where steam rose from mineral springs
and clocks ticked under Austro-Hungarian roofs.
People walked to market
in two languages,
and prayers rose
in voices both soft and strange.

Then the war came,
not once but twice,
and names became wounds.
Stones were not just stones,
but carriers of memory,
and language a dividing line
drawn through the middle of someone's home.

When Bad Ziegenhals became Głuchołazy,
some stayed,some vanished like mist.
New hands carried old keys.
Church bells rang in a different tongue.

But the hills remained.
The river did not change its course.
And in the quiet after history,
you can still hear
the echo of foodsteps in both directions.