Thin, white bones watch me from under the skin.
They stretch and crumple it in movement, that transparent membrane, the net of veins and nerves sensitive to every touch of the breeze in an unusually cold night of late June.
Bare shoulders rip the wind of dense darkness as if they were sharp white arrows, cowed, waiting, determined, for the first rays of sun that are still far on the brim of the night, far away, further than the stars.
Some sounds break the stillness; some lonely cries of iron beasts somewhere in the darkness, some echos of lonesome laughters evaporate in the small, lost streets.
We are the night shift, we are the guardians of the night air and the slumbering breaths of closed eyelids, we guard the dreams so no one can steal them, our white arrows and determined eyes fight the boogeyman that hides in the dark, for a few more hours of serenity, until the morning sun chases away all the monsters back into the very depths of the darkest shadows.
And the next night, the battle continues...

That night I bloomed at midnight.
My whole short existence I open my petals when the Sun wakes me, but that night the Moon was shining so bright he fooled me, and when i opened my eyes, it was too late; I was enchanted.
It was love at first sight. In the first second my blushing face got shined upon by his white light, that gentle brother of the Sun, the mirror of the Sun's burning soul, the guardian of the night sky, he has sung with the hushed song of crickets and owls. My roots trembled in the ground, my thin body shivered from the thrill in the cool breeze, my two tiny leaves stretched out in his direction. At that moment I realized that all my life I've been devotedly stretching out my fragile neck to the Sun, and only now, when he slept, I was able to see the thousands of small Suns, twinkling in the far away vastness high up in the sky. I breathed in the night air and realized how much sweeter and softer it was from the daytime air, and I felt the dew forming between my petals. You could almost hear the call of my brothers and sisters somewhere in the unreachable fields of the universe....
And now, as the whole forest sleeps, I watch the never ending fields of the shining sky flowers with my small, green soul, and they are so far that they become nothing but specks of glittering star dust, I can see the buds of the galaxies curiously blooming thousands of light years away, as the others wither away. And so it goes on forever, without end, the universe growing into the nothingness of space.
And it all began with a small flower who, the first amongst the brave ones, dared to bloom alone.

Some borders can not be moved with fingers. Some borders are moved by the will, wish, struggle, everyday struggle.
Drop by drop of blood, drop by drop of sweat, drop, tear, ocean.

I no longer want to try to move them. From now on I tear them down with my bare hands, fingers scratched to the bones, I bite and rip with my teeth until I'm left alone in the wasteland.
Borders do not exist. I dig out all feelings that were hidden, pushed aside, forgotten, shoved under the rug, tamed. I pull out anger, hatred and bitterness from the depths of my soul, I release them to roam free, I open Pandora's box and let them all out to create chaos, to destroy and to hate, to rage and ravage until all that's left is one big and empty nothing, until I, myself am left empty and clear, and free.
An empty paper sheet, something that has yet to start, something that's about to become, something that breaths and sings and screams and exists, something that still just threatens to conquer the world, confident, with a carefree, rebellious grin on the face.
Something wild and indocile, something that doesn't care, something that threatens to become in spite of everything, something that doesn't care about your opinion, because it does not exist for you, it does not exist to be liked by you, it does not exist to be appropriate, to fit in, to comply, to please you.
That something doesn't need you to exist.
It exists in spite of you, in spite of the world, just for itself.

She sits and stands, dances and spins.
Laughs a bit and then cries the saddest tear,
no fear in her eyes, a puzzle unsolvable.
And she knows she is capable of anything,
she can do magic and pull any string.
Sometimes a bit empty, in her thoughts she would sit,
every bit of her skin hot and wet, on the edge of the world.
Her glance deceives without you knowing,
her eyes going far while she disappears
to some other loves, never fully happy
curiously lost, those dark and wild things...
and she can stare at clouds for hours,
at rain, black bird's wings...
And then she slips out my hands,
once strong and now weak as spiderweb.
And she sings, what is life but a dream, deception?
Then I admire her, and want her for myself
to hold on to her for another moment.
And as the sunset watches us, I know
I am the one being left without her, alone.
As she seduces, as she chants and sings,
she is my maiden, my God, the black bird's wings.