Life is fair,
when the day is dying,
and I can see pigs flying
over Trafalgar Square.

The fountain is singing,
the drunkard is drinking,
the homeless sparechanging
the night.

Sir Nelson is chilling.
The busker is screaming
and blind men are dreaming
about light.

The moon is starwatching.
The buskers Beatlesing.

Im trafalgarsquare'ing
my rounded dreams
Nothing is as real as it seems.

Art hates fame
and flashing lights,
public places,
great gigs in the skies.

Art hates those
which watch her constantly,
she hides in blind eyes
and let them see.

She hates wisdom,
prophets and preachers,
she's a friend
of truth seekers.

She doesn't pay
for those who believe in her,
but give them instead
sense of existence.

It's like discovering a ****** island,
inhabited by people who you thought never exist.
It's like finding a city buried by time,
hidden away from present tense.

A busker in front of the Abbey sings
"There must be some way outta here",
and every step I take along the glorious church,
every breath of a air I taste standing on Pulteney Bridge,
every second of the peaceful silence my soul fills up with
tells me
that there's no way out of here.

*28.08.2016

I'd like to be
a nightingale.

Nightingales sing
the beauty of the night,
the moon, the stars,
and the starry light.

Unlike a man.
Man sleeps at night,
only snores to the stars,
only gasps to the moon,
hate its bright light.

He needs to wake up at dawn
and wash his face
and hurry up,
and chase the bus,
do things he hates.

That's why
I want to be a nightingale.
In fact, I am.

You won't understand
how it feels
to love.

You never loved,
you only calculate,
you only think.
You are never
on the brink. You never feel.

You won't understand how it is,
how man turns blind and then
how blind man turns man who can see.
You never felt this way,
you only think, and look
and calculate

what is good for you,
what is bad,
what is to remember,
what is to forget.

I hate you
for hating me,
I hope one day you will learn
and you will feel
how it is like
to love. One day
you will shed a tear, I hope. I bet.
Then you will speak to me,
you will look at me differently,
you will remember my name.

I'm sorry for you sometimes,
it must be sad
to separate the light from shadow
and shadow from the light
with one simple cut, one look
of the cold eyes.

You are never sorry for me,
but
I'm sorry for you sometimes.

Running away from the barbaric land,
where eye-for-an-eye is the only law.
Running awayfrom the blind hatred of its people,
from my own home, which has been besieged.

Fleeing the wars and heartless bombs,
hollowed eyes and kidnapped souls.
Runnig away from prophets and preachers.
From life after life and death before death.

Chicken, turkey's enemy for life
decided to make up, before he dies.
Said to the turkey: "Let's be a friends,
as we will have same, bitter end.

Not far from now till Christmas time
when they will **** us, stuff and dine.
Life is too short to live at war,
let's spend the last months of life in joy..."

But turkey replied: No way, you dirt!
You stupid chicken, go away!
Don't even try to talk to me,
you cheeky *******, ******, ****!

When Christmas came, they caught them both,
and it the same pan put to boil.
And turkey said to chicken, crying:
"You were right, man, we both now dying!

My hatred, anger were in vain,
I spent my whole life in chicken hate.
I want to make a peace, at last
and give you, buddy, friendly hug."

They hugged each other, in the pan,
then boiling water took their lifes.