last night
it was softly raining
during the summer solstice,
creating a strange
heavy atmosphere.

i took a shower,
looking trough the small
bathroom window-
watching the mountain,
the fog in the high trees,
it looked like
the forest was breathing.
the birds were all hurried up
to get to their nests,
their refuge
from the night.

i went to bed early,
closed the curtains
and watched
the evading light
on the celling,
and on the floor.

i waited, watched the light
slowly ceasing to pitch-black.
i imagined that outside
was a danger zone,
was the realm of the monsters,
and all the creatures of the night.

my bedroom was my safe zone,
hidden under the soft blankets,
like the birds in their nest.

there is a cork oak
in the playground
of the school
i studied
twenty years ago

there is a cork oak
in the playground
of the school
my mother
studied
fifty years ago

this cork oak
has big,
ancient roots
that form
a seat
where children's
play

today they're
there, seated
like i
and my mother
once were

seated in that cork oak
we told stories,
we laugh,
we escaped

seated in that cork oak
generations
imagined
their realms

i love that
cork oak.
he is my
first,
and most faithful
friend

how many friends
has he had?
how many will
he have?
what secrets
does he hold?

it's roots
rest in infinity
alongside
with our
most purest
being

there is only
one question
to be asked.

it's the first question.

it's the question,
you constantly asked
when you began talking –
why?

if you keep
the question
between your lips,
like before,
no door
will be closed,
no truth
will be preached.

this new age search
for 'collecting of experiences'
is no more than an image
to be created by the self.

it's an image of a
complete individual,
an image to be sold
in the desirable markets.

it's a barrier to truth,
truth which is
beyond description,
beyond recollection,
beyond recognition,
beyond label,
and therefore
beyond experience.

truth only is
in a state of awareness;
is the state of a
child looking at a tree...
always fresh, always new,
unbiased,
unexperienced,
full of life.

contrary to popular belief,
a marriage can endure
under love, or hate.

what keeps it going
is the same
for both cases.

it's the things
about the other
that you don't tell.

you don't speak
about 'love',
and you don't speak
about 'hate' either.

people's greatest fear
is
dying
before the tomorrow
they're preparing now
becomes their now

their tomorrow's
will always be preceded
by another tomorrow,
and their now
will never be now

they gather
all sorts of things:
knowledge,
wealth,
reputation,
confidence;
all so they can
tomorrow,
be able
to accept
or change
'what is'

'what is'
is always,
eternally
now-
the thing
which neither comes
into being
nor perishes,
without beginning,
or end,
reborn
moment
to
moment

there's only
one sentence
that worth
the saying
in all
the vocabulary,
in all
the dialect
we have learned.
that sentence is:
i don't know.

everything
we do has
to be
uncommitted

it is so to
escape influence
glory and
pride

a phrase written in
the sand, waiting to be
cleared by the
upcoming wave

a piece of cardboard near
a dumpster in
the back alley of
the place you go to
earn a living, picked,
and used to
write some words in
between smokes at the
ten-minute break,
later dumped, and stumbled
upon, lost in the dirt,
forever

one of those
might be found by the
chances of the universe,
and that's the way the
universe gives us
our genuine
created value

my grandfather
was a sweetheart

he died
in pain
at home
at the age of sixty six
with a colostomy bag
hanging
while his wife,
my grandmother,
made him work
in those fields
all morning long

one night
he got home-
drunk
to:
'where were you,
you drunk fool?'
he slapped her
back in the time
hitting a woman
was the thing to do

she didn't forget,
forty years later
she hasn't forgot,
that drunk slap

the expression:
'vengeance
is better served cold'
was first spoken by a man
and performed by a woman

winter morning;
vived blue sky
hidden with a spread
of white,
and some gray

a small, gentle
waterfall
intermingles
a riverstream
guided by
old, dramatic,
crooked
trees
that bend
touching the water;
a green field
at the other bank
corners it all

a small,
light
bird
lands on top
of one of the trees

at a small breeze
the bird departs
across the green field

one strong wingbeat –
breeze softly carries
another wingbeat –
go with the flow

on a heavy morning,
the birds sang
conjunctionally,

a faint sunlight
dodged the mass
highlighting
an old oak tree

an impending rain
was booed,
or maybe
cheered,
or preached,

the first drops,
the last wingbeats,
and,
in the old oak tree
a bird sang,
alone

he called,
he waited,
he knew

for those who live
in the realm
of imagination,
dreaming...
don't be ashamed
to reside
in the hope,
in the innocence

a false hope,
a life
lived
with a illusion,
is always better
than waking up
to a disappointment
that once was
your utopia

a human
achievement
is always preceded
with the hope
of something else...
there's no something else.

my father
is
completely
hypnotized
by
television
news

he says,
and i quote:
the world
is going crazy

father,
tell me:
when you were born;
were the birds singing?
the grass growing?
the rivers streaming?
the ocean waving?
the wind blowing?

if not for thought,
what in the nature
of reality
really changed?

respectfully
pointing out:

the word world
is just
another word
to say
me.

your world
is not
my world

your struggle
can be
my struggle

how each of us
perceive it,
creates
two different
worlds

if this is true,
our worlds
are merely
the deduction
of information
that forms
emotional
activity
inside
our brain

marvelously
liberating
this is

there's nothing
mankind
wants more
than
admiration

they've tried
different
schemes,
all to achieve
the same result,
admiration

do you
know
the difference
between
an artist
and a
tyrant?

they have both
their own
private
world,
filled with
fears,
joys,
shames,
regrets...

the difference
between them
is that:
the artist
share his world,
while the tyrant
wants to make you
live in his

but,
don't be fooled!
they have both
the same goal,
admiration

you know
you've found
a real artist
when he
didn't share
his world

now,
do i have
your admiration?

in the shade
of a chestnut tree
in a garden with
camellias
and orchids
i listen to
schubert's
trio op.100
when
two birds land
in a near tree
and start to
loudly sing

i rush to turn
down
schubert's
masterpiece

nothing we've ever made
or will ever make
will be of compare
to what nature
has made its

unnamed
unlabeled
unspoken
untouched
uninfluenced
and
unatta­inable
to us
while creatures
of meaning

a year ago
a yellow cat
with no name
was born

he's noisy,
friendly,
and
strong

today,
he left

a year ago
a yellow cat
with no name
returned

he's silent,
lonely,
and
old

today,
he died

one cat
one lion
one path
and
no name

a dream
about
an old man
with a
long white beard

he's seated
in a
sturdy wooden chair
at the patio
of an
old stone house

the leaves
have crawled
the chair
absorbing
his legs

there,
he watches
a cherry tree
grow

magnificent
is the life
the old man
lives