Sorry, there is not a single homeless
river lurking nearby.
God does not walk around,
staring at the space at His feet.

The bird of my melancholy
has perched on the border between
life and heaven;
a branch bends, the last boulder
breaks away from the ground.

Air spreads within me, a breath
of freshly renovated sky - I will find
an antidote
to an overly noisy thought.

Sleep will never be
reconciled with night.
Your tears are so uncertain of my lips,
so vast that the soul stops
in mid-question.

What good are the answers if they
are so stereotypical?
What good are people if hope
has settled in the corner
of the mouth?

Or maybe a surfeit of tenderness
makes me dare to love in vain?
Is it fear that prevents you
from living emphatically?

Stars of this evening are silent.
The Moon is noiseless, late for its own
thirtieth birthday.