No reward, no throne.
Neither the place of honor
Neither made out of the gold, nor made out of thorns.
I do not need a crown...

Defiant to admire me but pitiful,
to follow me with fear.
To devour me lives full of hunger
Souls of unfortunate vagabonds. All different ones

There are a lot of half-empty barrels.
They stink like mold
And the wine turns darker,
like blood on a piece of cotton.

And when leaking starts in the water spout
The drops are racing one another.
And their feet give them away, badly.
Numb or dead below the waist.

There are more blood in the fields
crushed in the dust of the land
and in the roots of many young sprouts.

It is born with the sun
the spirit of antiquity and eternal existence
long time ago that I used to construct.

In the fields the wind still flows
and carries the voice
where it is heard more.

In the woods near the hummock
irrelevant and empty,
where streams continue to roar...

In a spiral of confusion
We're spinning
more and more losing ground.

Trapped between
birth and death
we bear
our thoughts well.

We bow down humbly
To night light
brighter than the sun.

We are afraid of
subconscious awakening
and foggy trails
of mind.

I do not believe in picturesque letters
on the parchment.
In counting, polling and marching.

I do not believe in mosaics and stained glass
or in various rainbows after the storm and rain.

I do not even believe in the songs of tired musicians,
in the waves on the docks
and in imaginary looks of melancholic cony-catchers.

I only believe in pore on stone,
centuries-old testimony
and forgiveness after cognition.

I'm looking for an excuse
to hide under the sun
and protect myself
from cold birch trees of May.

I am looking to replace
a piece of bread
with the entire surface
of uncultivated fertile soil.

Seeking a drop of water on a leaf
burned by the same sun,
while not catching the reflection
of my image above the well.

From stars to make you a hat, to keep you safe.
No one to see you under it...
Out of clouds I’ll create a velvet,
to sew you a vest, when it blows and stings.
To embroider it with a silver thread.
Washed with the lake water.
And with fairy’s tears
hidden in the dark forest…

The song I'll use to sing you
a silver chain,
and the fields will make you a bed.
From dry plums a balm,
to put on your wet lips,
and from the root of the wild lily,
to collect water,
to soothe your thirsty soul.

I will splice me, from your hair,
like a cord threads of silk.
As in my vest
they once used to be.
I'll take your hand,
and take you to the past, far away.
To see all of them who are there,
So that you know there is still someone.

Simple lines of star constellations
Tire my night vision
While the sounds of lyre
still disrupt the silence
of the sleepy dark valleys.
Under the tree top there is outspread
memory of the clumps of the furious
and of the beaten paths
that ingrown in weeds.
Sprinkled with dust
collected from dried out wells
Hides the shadow of
Polished silent sky.