On the day when all hearts
Were frozen, a red woodpecker,
Close to dying due to a heat stroke,
Was pecking the arteries of all
Frozen hearts —
So, the hearts were melting.

Dissolving into a puddle.
The puddle became a pond.
From the pond, a lake had evolved.
The lake emptied into a river.
Out of it, the ocean of melting
Hearts emerged.

It is said that the red woodpecker
Turned into a poet.
Who, steadily engrossed in thought,
More and more focusing on fame
And glory, got an icy heart.

Out of the empty, impregnated
Cockpit of reasoning — Kicked into
Your eyes from the pedestal of fear.
Guilt is the sin of guilt.

Yaps of thugs returned,
Volt-green bloodstream above the
Airwaves of forgotten songs.
Angels of the underworld.

Lunatics, in love with themselves,
Are hurtling over night-colored
Fields, while the silver fur of rabbits
Is reflecting screams of rage.

Is it over?
Been waiting for this day.
In the red, deep night I was sitting
Once in a creek of silk. Virgins were Diving in it.

Will I be attending?
I don't belong to anyone cause I
Belong to everyone.
You a member?
You were taking pictures back then, Down by the creek.

Maybe this connects us.
Since you brought a good moment
To the future.
The only reason for this poem
Is God's Mercy.

Therefore I'm akin to a great-grandson.
Whose great-grandfather was confined
In a camp during the war.
There, sunbeams consisted of
The desire for freedom. And guards were yelling in nights of flashs.

So I believe: Something connects us.
If I'd go that far to claim we would
Belong together?

Cause these people are traveling
Through light, weightless and covered
With the dust of eternity, they're now
Yelling words through distances of
Years and rooms, words ground by the
Misery of love, translucent, born to burst,
Yet hard as a rock.

Rocks, survived by the patience of
Water, sunken in oceans, simulation
Of a loss, of a transformation —
A child is chuckling while putting a shell
To its ear, listening to the swoosh of the Waves.

"Like the swoosh of the waves", the
Gardener is thinking while cutting the leaves, As the wind
Is blowing, surrounded by palaces of glass
And metal, smooth, glistening, built by Nobody for the whispering few.

Cooing, the doves are painting a white
Picture into the sky, and above the sky,
Deeply in space, people are consistently
Traveling through light, through a pale
Reflection, a reflected opalescence of
Earth's light, where deep down the eyes of a Child, putting a shell to its ear, are
Glowing.

The child escaped the
suit of fear.
Its friends are close to the
Child, yet it feels lonely.

And remorseful when watching its face.

For the first time the child perceives
Itself not wearing the suit of fear; in an
Empty pool filled with sunlight.
The eyes of the child are twitching; it's cold.

The burning of the skin starting
In the fight of Gods and ****** in
The bays of Golem where
Red, humongous ghosts are stranded.

Elopers, exodus of children,
Westend, Gaza,
Crystals, glaciers, jaws
Panting, greedy for the
One fulfilling victory of love.

Shoals are occupying the shells of
Their ancient homeland; skins,
Among craps and lipstick,
Are burning.
Hollowed castles of silk and
Mirrorglass.

Seven verses distant.
38 souls close by.
Ten gangs
38 skins against burning skin.

From the ravines of displacement,
Burying the sun of happiness under
Concrete-colored solitude;

From the year of hiding,
Lying in the rills of an old building,
Doing things incessantly;

From the energy of an army,
Focused in the fingers of a single person,
Doing things incessantly, mistaking
Approval as an attack.

Holding on is holy! The waves been
Slapping over the carpet of concrete
Of the vibrating city.
Displacement is holy!