Birds in migrating flocks and families,
fluttering in black waves,
will fly over our houses,
the dried fields,
and the trees with their sullen faces.
Their sight will lift your mood.
Often we wish to escape the city,
to vanish somewhere, as they do
where it is warm,
where comfort is nearer.
At a waterfall cascading down the cliffs,
women with loosened hair
will circle around,
and like birds,
they will spread their wings.
Simply warmth brings everything to life.

Today I want to read a few pages, listen to Lana Del Rey, or Janis Joplin, or even Nick Cave…
to enjoy what the bright side of the internet offers, and the falling leaves that I will soon witness.
I will wait  autumn is the sweetest season.
The hot, unpleasant, and exhausting summer has finally come to an end.

the snow is melting on the mud,
and the ***** mud sticks to the sole of my shoe, leaving a mark.
The snow is melting on my warm face,
and the sparrows are watching me not so trustfully.
Black clouds are pressed against the sky,
the snow is melting on your warm nose.
You wipe your face with your hand,
I would lie down motionless in the ***** mud
and let it snow on me...

He
inhales his cigarette deeply
he, with cold feet
he,
his voice hoarse like Tom Waits,
he watches a Britney Spears reel
where she dances with knives.
He,
reads the Odyssey
so he may read Ulysses.
He,
falls asleep
and in dreams
he calls my name.

The fisherman, even in dreams,
stands by the city river, rod in hand,
waiting with hope,
watching others on the opposite bank.

And in this dream he catches
the largest fish  a trout.
He thinks: Such a species no longer lives
in the city river

Perhaps he will let it go,
or show it to his friends across the water.
He thinks: It is truly beautiful.
At last, he realizes it is only a dream.

He wakes, rises from bed,
prepares himself,
still thinking of his dream:
Maybe today luck will smile on me

In the heat of summer
the river’s breeze will dry his sweat.
Once more he looks, with hope,
toward his friends.

I wish to retreat,
perhaps to a cabin in the woods,
or, like Iris Murdoch’s hero,
to settle near the sea…

It has been so long
since I have felt true solitude.
I long for that silence
that only it can bring
to sit in stillness
and listen to my own thoughts,
to cook only for myself
and savor each single bite,
untouched by the street’s noise
that might disturb
my quiet comfort.

Somewhere far away, deep in the forest,
animals dwell
some hide from predators,
yet more dangerous still
is the rifle of a hungry hunter.

He returns home with prey,
switches his plasma TV
to the Discovery Channel,
slices the animal’s flesh
to feed himself.

He sets the table,
eats,
and at last,
with half-closed, weary eyes,
lights a cigarette
the final act,
before locking the door
and collapsing into sleep.