City lights flicker, casting shadows tall,  
Whispers of evening, in twilight’s fall.  
Streets hum softly, a nocturnal song,  
In the heart of darkness, where we all belong.

Moon ascends in silence, a guardian in the sky,  
Stars spill secrets, as constellations sigh.  
Echoes of footsteps, a dance on cobbled stone,  
Night embraces the wanderer, the dreamer, the alone.

Neon signs pulse, a heartbeat of the street,  
Mysteries unravel where darkness and light meet.  
Windows glimmer faintly, lives hidden behind,  
In the cloak of midnight, stories unwind.

Cool breeze carries whispers of distant seas,  
Rustling leaves murmur, swaying with the trees.  
A symphony of stillness, the night’s gentle hymn,  
In its silent chorus, we find solitude within.

Night is a canvas, painted in shades of deep,  
Where dreams take flight, and secrets keep.  
Beneath its vast expanse, a quiet allure,  
In the embrace of night, our spirits endure.

Cover me with the haze of
Fragmented years,
Let me sleep through this autumn
Where rains greedily devour
Dying leaves,
And streams flow into the rotten silence.

Clothe me with the moss
Which grew in the wrinkles of the forehead,
Make me senseless for the cruel fingers of the northerly wind,
And the silver which dwells
On Venus Hill,

Just leave my eyes naked
To count in them rings of the birch tree,
Which cut down
Our immeasurable distance.

The windmills swallowed
Don Quixote,
Ocean spat out Atlantis.
Nothing will surprise their hearts
Captured by stony aortas.

The boy from family portrait on the shelf,
Dag his bitten nails into remains of rotten orange
(which left the trail in colour of the burning hearth
across the sky),
And probably not even then,
Not once, has he wondered
What are the trenches on his mother’s face
Channelling salty water
From two black amulets.

Sister’s arms grew wings and scattered
Toward the hanging tree,
Row and untouched by loneliness,
The dog was staring
At the dry terracotta peel,  

Only the father,
Smiling and handsome in a black suit,
Resisted the tide of the scorched sunset.

Abandoned childhood home
Was still filled with corn bread scent
And ethereal steps of heartless motherhood.

The music box, found in the corner of the room, laid
Full of Mozart and scars,
Old cabinet
With drawers for storing
Always freshly harvested frost,

All of that,
And rare watermark of father's eye
In invisible aquarelle,
Forced her to freeze the heart
And clenched the fist,
Preventing memories to spill over the soul
Like the endless field
On a cracked palm of the hand.

a light
shattered
in colour of the old paper

sailing across the sky

an ark
webbed
by moonlight tread

setting free its sails

a dream
painted
on the child's face

waking up with its song

a light
shattered
in colour of the old paper...

In a tear of morning
on the fig tree leaf

lies the dream about the bird without wings.
Bird who
sang the silence of aborted memories,
drunk the sweat of bedevilled paradise
and surrendered to drown

in a tear of morning
on the fig tree leaf.