Sometimes a butterfly ***** its wings
and elsewhere someone gets wobbly knees,
because he is just about falling in love with anything.
He’s on the verge of tears and on the brink of bliss.
Now this could be a monk dreaming about transformation.
If so, I guess, he ate too many sticky sweets last night.
But the story goes further: At the very same moment
the butterfly leaves the flower and surrenders to the wind –
flabbergasted, the universe holds its breath:
Are its wings strong enough for the invisible force?
There, the monk wakes up with wobbly knees.
How courageous, one must admit.
And all of a sudden the monk has butterflies in his stomach.
Things get mixed up here, he thinks, and he tries
to fall asleep again – but (un)fortunately he can‘t.

Love-driven on the edge of chance
he took the stairs in his surefooted stride:
Two, four - and one too many.
Happens, sometimes.
He dunked his thumb in the jam ***
And sought for a sentence –
That eluded him.
He rooted, laughed and drank,
Took his scarf,
hat
and thought:
Such a lucky chance –
It happens, now and then,
That you lose time
But grasp your luck
And leave on the dot.

Well then!
Four, two – you know the rest:
One too many.
It was meant to be.
There were flowers by the table –
And the cups were steaming
Invitingly to be stirred.
Hot chocolate and a piece of cake.
You know too well,
It happens now and then:
That you lose time
But grasp your luck
Hot chocolate and a piece of cake.

In a tiny bitter lemon tree
there sat an orange, quite obese,
dreaming an ice-cream-reverie:
I would like a scoop of rasperry…
„That cheeky orange“, spoke the lemon tree,
tries to spoil our yellow purity!
Where upon the orange blushed.
„Now you look like a strawberry“
laughed a bumblebee
licking ice-cream happily.

What if  we had roots deep down to the centre of luck –
wouldn’t we be laughing about rain and tears
and wouldn’t we keep growing if we embroidered
our thoughts with roots and luck.
What if the fruit at the end of the twig was happiness, without a question mark.
Wouldn’t we chuckle about the empty space in our mind?
How could we stop?
What if, instead of connecting dots we overdrew parentheses and footnotes with smileys and flowers and purring cats;
What if science and pain only existed
as cuddly monsters with toothache in children's books;
What if we found a rabbit’s hole leading us into a world where psychiatrists and gurus were nervous patients
in big waiting halls without flushing toilets.
Wouldn’t we be neurotically smiling?
What if we didn’t call ourselves falling leaves,
but started feeling eons of love upon our wrinkles.
Wouldn’t death then simply be a slight breeze
releasing the heat at the end of a wonderful day?
What if our hearts went on, free of age and weight,
circulating kindred songs beyond fixed identities.
What if I was wrong and every conditional was closer
to experience than arguments and miracles –
My dear: I unlocked the universal laughter;
I turned sadness into luminous gardens, into a slow waltz
to hear the non-dancers saying: Cheers! Cheers! Cheers!  
What if we finally found the recipe for equilibrium:
Would we still be needing stock markets and currencies?
Or could we simply exchange syllables across languages
without losing the message of oneness.
What if we really had roots deep down to the centre of luck?
Yes. Roots and luck.

litter me with your kisses
let your insistent lips echo them
sprinkle me with your eyes’ sparkles
frame me with your hands
transcribe my sweat into wordless sound poems:
your need for heavy showers
will find shiny, never-ending vistas
and during our gay afternoons
forget about the abyss and the sun
and follow the hidden tracks