Tradition since 1893. Machines, tanks and motorcycles. And 1.500.00 tractors exported to every corner of the globe. 12.000 employees. Schools, kindergardens, medical center, hotels for workers and a small railway station - all to accomodate the vast army of workers.
And a name coming from a book by Nobel Prize winner Polish writer.
I sit on a derelict railway track and watch the huge watchtower's shadow, hardly visible as the sun dies. There are many of them, once equipped with huge reflectors, and they all surround a huge square made of concrete slabs where once hundreds of shiny tractors awaited loading and transportation. Trees, tangled bushes and grass, reaching to my armpits, cover the place now.
For a second I think of climbing the watchtower to look at the glory turned into dust but then I remember that I am no longer a brave Warsaw Pact special trooper.
Instead I am old and lazy. And I am scared of that feeble, rusted ladder leading to the platform at the top.
And so I am sitting on a useless, rusted railway track with a Red Bull in my hand. I should be making photos, that's what I came for. But I only made three snaps. Three!
Instead I'm mysteriously glued to that track and, thinking of 1.500.000 tractors, I watch the approaching storm.
And then I do something I normally never do. I toss the empty can far away and the wind kicks it viciously along the railway track. Cling-clang... cling-clang...
The rain starts falling.
This photo is
Best on black at Fluidr
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