It's morning again. It’s a new day and all is clear. Just let us not taint it, let it stay just like that… Same like a tear…

Night took the previous day… And to be honest, it wasn’t some day, or maybe it was?
I lost some dreams on the sidewalk, so I had to find then in my dreams again… But never mind, it’s morning again and everything is clear. Let us just not taint it, let it stay the same. like a tear…

I still don’t know whether today the sun was born or whether the rain cloud wash your and my face. And will the petals of the wild flower whose name I do not know, flutter in the breeze and caress your hair. Just the way I wished it to stay there permanently.

I'm not sure whether love was born today or whether some tears were shed, young, clear… Anyway, it’s like morning, crystal clear. Just let us not taint it, let it stay the same. Like a tear…

And when you look at the sky, you remember that there is someone who loves you, even if he is not near you, even if he is far away or high up above.
That’s why, it is blue, honest and beautiful...
Today you will walk again under the sky, and rejoice for the day that gives you the morning. But do not let it go down somber in eternity, sadden the sky and appear impure. Let it remain as this morning - serene...

May the giants become tamed in your and my embrace and let the wings of iron bird melt in this sun of ours, so it can transform itself into the pigeon and its soul could become gentle...

May this be a prayer to your or to my God. Nevertheless, like morning it’s clear. Just let us not taint it, let it stay just like the way we know it. Same like a tear…

The world of adults has for a long time been insensitively pouring lies onto the purity of the newly created mind, believing persistently in the vortex of nonsense while living in it. They do not know for the alternative . They are afraid…
That is why they are fostering the lie and with the finger in front of the mouth they are evoking premonition.
Silence was interrupted by a gentle voice from the corner. Lurking, he waited patiently for his moment. Then he started very slowly and softly and curious become quiet and then there was silence.
- Outside, you could hear a life! – said the kid – People live outside.
The father got up from the chair while the others looked at the child in astonishment, he then went to the window and said:
- There is no one out there. It's raining and it's gloomy. It gets dark faster in the autumn.
- Through the door, under the threshold, I feel the pollen from the blooming linden trees. It's morning and it isn’t dark. It is just about to be dawning. And it's not autumn but it's late spring – the boy said.
- There’s no morning, son. – said the concerned father, looking briefly at his son and then back to the backyard.
- There it is, behind the gates. Only you cannot see it. It’s scared of the grown-ups. I will go there and invite the morning to come in.
The kid ran out and returned in a few moments, holding the morning by the hand. The linden tree smelled even stronger and the joy of the awakened day sneaked into the house.

I won’t know that I’m gone,
one day, when I am no longer here.
But even then while you sleep
I’ll place my head behind your lap, near,
and whisper what you already know –
“You mean the world to me, my dear.”

I won’t know  that I no longer exist
when the sun hides behind the shade,
when the day carries dreams, joy, happiness,
along with some rainy cloud,… afraid.
You know that it was all for us, here,
and you keep it in your heart, my dear.

I won’t see that teary eye of yours
but I’ll know when the wind brings the news,
when the audience leaves, when you are alone
how to lay my breath on your lips and kiss you tear.
It’s not eternity but only life,
so don’t be ever sad, my dear.


to my wife

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.

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.

There is a tremble in my glancing eye.
Station is full,
and one after another are preparing to depart.
People...
Trains...
I dreamed of them all.
I know where they are going and where they will arrive.
Good for them!
Such a huge horizon and infinite space.
I am wishing them farewell
with well known pictures in my head.
Need to get away swiftly before I become insane.
It's already too late.
And I didn’t even drink my coffee.
I did not feel the ardor between my fingers.
...And they are already gone.

Train station is full again,
and one after another are preparing to leave.
People...
Trains...

These seem to be your tears, which pour wildly down my face. They are indeed, only you can cry like that. No one else…
For a long time already my cheeks are wet and I wonder if you ever stopped crying.
I do not dare to leave…
However if I leave anyway and come across the wind, he will not spare me, he will whip me so much that my wounds will permanently stay   .
That's why I have to stay forever in your arms so if I ever feel like craying because of my sadness, I'll just be weeping.
And I’ll be cry your tears…

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.

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.

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...

Being at the end of the line is the most beautiful place to be.
The giggle of the gullible lips makes you laugh. Even the thunder spares you when they get bored by him and cuts them like a sword. The stormy cloud slices them just in passing. Not accidentally…
Then you see how some have passed through, although their path is not known. It makes you wonder….
However, it is better this way, at the end.
The only thing you have to get used to is that no one has your back. You must know you are alone and if you lose your strength, you don’t have no one and nothing to hold on to. The one in front of you does not turn his head back.
You have to be alone, be your own, somewhere far away at the end of the line…

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'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.

Sequence of images on the other side of the curtain,
In a semi-dark gloomy room,
Is nothing but a foggy trail of memory.
The past is still calling, sometimes. Maybe often…
We usually encounter in the absurd. The feeling is melancholic.
I tell her: I am the one you have kept from the past days.
Maybe I'm a little older, more experienced, worse...
When you leave the apartment, do not close the window.
I have to know,
when the curtain flutters in the wind that hides you,
That is nothing but the proof
That I am still here,
when the storm strikes.

When you fall asleep, dream of ships;
they always return…
So does my soul return on the morn
having navigated the “northern sea route”.

When you fall asleep, dream of ships,
because they rid you of the great anger;
with it they smash the ice, and sailing on
they leave it in the depths of the Mariana,
where the worlds of darkness touch…

When you fall asleep don’t worry where I am;
I am already making your coffee,
a refreshment from the voyage,
and you will show me the silk nightgown
that smells of cocoons, old mulberry trees
and the spirits of the eastern sun.

When you fall asleep always dream of ships.
They return…
If once they do not, don’t worry,
I will wait for you at the bottom of the ocean.
To be the nymph’s servant and carry her lantern
where the worlds of darkness touch…