To her,
who resembles
the forest,
to her,
who dressed up
for the party
with tales from the Vienna woods.

A man,
never
become
empty,..
............
...that emptiness
is just, the pain of the soul.

They told me that i'm a thing,
so i become a thing
and now they pay
a thousand dollars,
for a kiss from me,
while vicious collectors
pay fifty sents
for my soul.

I like jokes
but they told me
that i look like one
and now i don't want
to see anyone.

Well,
i become
what you wished
but now i'm a broken
money machine.

Noisy thoughts
come near,
quiet fear
focus on waste needs.

Here,
under the shadow
of the big rock,
the end of the route.
Here,
where the defense
seems impossible,
defeat turns into a raining pleasure.

So....the empty long distance
           of time,
           regains rhythm
           and aim
           when our spirit and soul paint....so,...

That's poetry,
the rhythm of the soul
to express
its sorrow or joy,
to express its sense of world,.....
so the breath of the spirit within a poem,
helps me to follow
the breath of the spirit
within me....

Sailing back,
with your love in my eyes,
in the mornihg light
out of the chaos,
i came in a place of my own....

...time night
    small sleep
    alive eyes
    sunny shadows
    and stars light
    painted skin with warm jasmine air,
    like cool blue love.....