In the bleak winter
under hurrying clouds,
the wind blowing, bitter
gusts through trees’ barren boughs.

A small house: Its nooks
in new Gothic style
once housed the old books
of a forgotten king for a while.

It had been a library,
a place filled with words;
now all that here tarries
are the winds and the terns.

Its glassless peaked window
looks out on the sky
to waters that flow
by the small palace hard by.

The window is incised
in stone shaded gold —
a warm tone that belies
its touch that is cold.

The red palace is crowned
in gold and white marble.
They shine out, gowned
in hues that spite winter’s pallor.

Now blue waters and birds
add color to the scene
that fills this blank window
with nature’s stained glass serene.

This house has stood waiting,
empty in wintriest times —
now it’s filled by nature’s painting
brushed in hushed hues divine.

Human life moves fast
shows things, words, convinces

It shows things that are not created,
but about what is created in the heart
No healthy person will say

And even when life is sad
Don't lose hope, because it's very tedious anyway

Everything is falling apart
You're lying on the ground, you're in despair

Suddenly a ray of sunshine appears,
Drivetrain like in a sports car
Engine straight from the sky

It's coming back, and you want to change it, present it like a bestseller,
Put it on a distant shelf, away from light, eyes of the gaze
for old memories

And when you see yourself in the mirror after grayness and indifference... You bet something...
It's love, faith, hope

-Happiness at last, faith at last,
As if my punishment had passed, you thought
not seeing your reflection that you have already seen,
reflections from the mirror of childhood. It's faith

Not only old memories will remain

Time’s diminishments adds its own beauty
in gratitude for moments that are not ours:

the child tiptoes into the mother’s bedroom
and silently witnesses her comb her hair,

later listens to her snore, transferring to
them the transient lyrics of the song of life-

the lines that survive  the well of nights,
the rose thorns to bloom in their mouths

until it’s stamped in their bodies—
this trapped time to live all over again.

I’m walking by the dimming remains
of a building of future past:
its once stylish streetlight, now decayed,
points at the Moon that’s rising fast.

The old streetlight was made of globes of glass
that circle its core of steel bars.
It looks like a starship, sleek and fast,
but now its globes are dusty and scarred.

The globes, a circle of eight bright moons,
orbit the streetlight’s tall spire
that points up to the glowing sky jewel,
to the place to which it aspires.

Up there, on brightly lit lunar plains,
our spacefarers once walked in awe
and dreamt of Zarathustra’s booming strains
in two thousand and one proud hurrahs.

And so this spacecraft of glass globes
was made to look up to the stars,
to urge us on to launch further probes
and take wing from this blue globe of ours.

Years later, this dream has faded
to fleeting stars of reality shows,
who leave the people fixated —
not by the Moon’s, but by screens’ dim glow.

The streetlight was fixed firmly to earth,
iron bolted to grey crumbling concrete.
But it still points up to the heavenly berth:
Moon rises, a dream left on repeat.

A Berlin building. Sunbeams of steel
made to shine in suns of future’s gold,
now dreary, dimmed and forced to kneel
to the timeless gods of growing old.

Its shining future could not last.
Sinking in a golden fade, a forgotten grail.
Of sunbeam ore, new futures are cast,
bright dreams unbound by fear’s black veil.

From the forge of steely sunbeams
comes a new grail of sunlit dreams
and the tireless gods’ tired reign
is overthrown for another day.

A cobblestone road
in a dark night dyed with woad.
Faint glitter under pale street lights.

Icy blue fog in the late night
turned electric by the passing lights
of rumbling cars that rush on by.

They leave their streaks of LED beams
that quickly fade as if a lost dream.
The night watches with a hint of a sigh.

A mythical chimera galloping against the direction of the wind
7 different philosophies divided over the 3 of your heads
Your neck is always covered
in hickeys and pus-leaking bites of disgust

I watch you as you lift the red wine glass up to your lips and loose myself in the conviction
that you too would have found a way to part the sea
if only it had not been army troops crusading after you, but another past withdrawn and tremoring loveress persecuting you for the feeling of your high

She has been picking up filthy cigarette butts from the ground and she gets drunk with strange men in the night,
for that is the closest she can get to you
again
without you deserting yet another brand-new city and another untouched life
as you blemish those of them around you like candles staining the white table cloth with irremovable hot wax and the ceiling with cough-provoking soot as they are yet to decide whether they ever want to burn out or not.

Despite of the transience you so desperately try to project
There is a part of you in every speck of light and shadow
That is perceived by both
your waken and your resting eye.
You cannot outrun the light.

A-walking through the foggy wood
I found a Roman urn
It marks what seems a noble grave
but its fate took a turn

It lacks a name or token word
to tell just who lies there
It blankly stares right back at me
without the slightest care

The puzzling urn says naught to me
I sit in somber peace
and then the answer falls in place:
it’s a grave for all deceased

For all the nameless of the past
the memorial stands here
The grandest grave that ever was
Unsung now sung I hear