How can animal rights be defended,
not defending the rights of the unborn children...
How can the rights of the unborn children be defended,
not defending the poor or the hungry children...
Oh, the right, oh, the left...
Conservative jerks will call me names like a "leftist",
And on the leftist side, they will accuse me of being a rightist.
I am not a prophet in my country.

1.2.2021

There is no poetry,
There is only a life,
It looks like your dream
Is coming true,
But there comes the question:
Why?

There is no sense,
No meaning, no harmony,
And black ants fly,
But you are not able to ask:
Why?

Two people write each other.
One asks softly: "Do you have
Any time for your hobbies?"
The answer: "Yes, I have a life".
But immediately, this question
comes:
Why?

Why do you have your life?
And: why-why are you rife?
Any strife?

Sleepy bride.
Any guide?
Life's slide.

Bye.
(Sigh.)

Oh, Prince Philip, you have served us for so long,
For seventy years… The Queen’s Kephas, the rock!
Sometimes it seems that you have always been here...
Like a Servant of the Monarchy, like power, like glory!

Oh, Prince Philip, the son of the Greek Corfu,
You, the Danish Hamlet, you, the brave soldier!
Today your life has died out, today you go to sleep...
So to sleep forever… with God in a permanent covenant!

Your city is crying and the rain is pouring down hard!
Sorrow on the faces of the Britons... You died during the plague,
You left like Paris, real, in the morning, in the spring...

Where are you going now? What kind of images do you see?
What is there after death? Will you reveal these secrets?
Are you taking these to the grave, for yourself, unfortunately?...

9.4.2021.,
On the day of the death of the Greek, Danish and English Prince Philip, husband of the Queen.

Just promise to give the keys to the gates, but
Not only to Apollinaire. Just be like Jerusalem,
Opening the gate to the king coming. Kind
David is on the way. He is coming to the gate.

You are a holy person, keeping the keys to the gate
Of Jerusalem. Behind this gate, there is the garden,
Where is the apple the king wants to eat, he has
To consume. Fresh juices of life and being.

Before the dawn of Time, you were chosen
By the king and you have already chosen him
As well. You, a person from the Cossacks,
A post-Scythian phenomenon with Talmud roots.

You saw seagulls in the European north in
The front of the Tallinn synagogue, you saw
Seagulls in the European south in the front of
The endless sea, where Columbus started his trip.

You saw the seagull. You are the seagull. The seagull
Is in you. ”Yes, you are going for a seagull”, you said.
”The mystical unity with the seagull of Genoa”, I said.

The most beautiful. The most attractive. The most
Intelligent. The wisest. The most moral. The most
Feeling. The seagull. There is only the seagull, neither

The world nor people. It is a belief in the seagull.

11.2.23

I suffered with You, Belarus, my beloved,
When a police baton *****
You at the police station,
In full drill.

I was there when they fired at You,
When they killed the helpless
On the street without mercy,
In envy, in anger.

I was when they beat with a baton,
When they hit the eyes with a baton
In the police torture
Or in the yard by the wall.

I was when they beat uncontrollably,
When the lying, despite wanting to
Prove his innocence,
Got the fifth stick in the bone.

I was when they took off the woman’s
******* and were pushing a baton there,
And in the man’s ****
It was being inserted - until the whine.

I was when they beat one in the forest,
The spirit still carries me there,
I saw hundreds lying in the alps,
I saw the dead in the halls.

Hospitals ...

It was the baton of Łuka,
Which *****,
Which killed,
Which beat,
Which knocked out teeth,
Which bruised,
It was the baton of Łuka.

The bullets were Łuka’s,
The hands were Łuka’s,
I give the large double doors back to Łuka:
Let you be rotten in a bad way.

The baton was Łuka’s.
It was the baton of Łuka.
The baton was Łuka’s.
It was the baton of Łuka.

You wronged a simple man,
And the walls will collapse anyway,
It's not balderdash,
Oh, you ignoramuses,
Oh, you ... stupid.

Oh you the bows! ...
Oh, you, Łuka (the Bow)!

To look for love
Where there
Is no love -
To understand the mystery
Of the absurd world -
To put on another mask
In the time of the plague -
To put it aside for sometime:
Meeting with loved ones -

25/12/2020

I saw days without a night,
I saw dreams, time that had flowed past
Like lava permanently, strongly – –
I saw faces that I knew –
A great many people – now their images blurred –
I saw my death, I saw ...
I saw a poem about it, I wrote – –
And I was there where – as I thought –
Nobody had ever been before me –
Nobody had passed this road so tightly,
By self.
And I saw the sadness, despair, concern,
I placed them modestly on my knee,
Because they were mine – so mine –
And I saw a world that had passed,
I was waiting for a new one – I did not live to see it –
Now there is only ordinary life left,
The poetry is gone, it bathes in the sun,
Not with me, not for me, not for
You.
There are only a growl and envy in the crowd.
The man waits for his end like a fly.
There's nothing left. There is only earth,
Only the end, only the memory of a guest.

9/23/20

God, oh, the Seagull of Tallinn,
Of Genova, of all the places known,
Keep me away
From Eugenia today.
She is so sweet
And wants me to be nice.
But I’m having a headache!!!

I.
You say that there is nothing
To live for,
There is nothing
To achieve.

All is broken here,
There is nowhere to go,
All ways are not dear,
One can only scream, oh!

There are weak shadows of the fog,
There is hate, there are crimes,
There is all this human smog,
There is no sense to our lives.

II.
But I tell you that there is a better,
More wonderful and sunny world,
Where like soft songs, like a short meter,
We can fly, and this is not the last word.

I can tell you that this world remains,
This is on this... such dark earth,
On these streets without stairs
And heaven, if you still breath...

And if you still ask me where...
Where to go, how to have a life...
I will tell you that you can go there,
To yourself to find how rife

Not to be!

III.
And, there is also another world
No one alive has been there so far,
Neither Socrates, who was bald
Nor Plato, and any Judith Shklar!

No one was there and back again,
This is another air, another form of life,
And no one knows the time and when
One has to go there to fly, not strife...

No one knows but everybody’s so wise...
What we see here is real but material,
It is all teeming and brutal disguise,
But there are things there – unfamiliar

We are with them...

IV.
...yet.
Go straight.
It’s a net.

It is a bet!
Pascal’s freight.
Warm, wet...

The eternal bed.
Nothing left.
All left.

V.
You have no concept when you are born,
But when you die, much more is driven:
You see the light when the heaven is sworn,
You see the darkness when the hell is given.

Although during a life you often see nothing...
Like a bee, like a candle, like a batwing.
Like funny moray eels, we have to swim,
And funny is life, and later life is dim.

And, yes, a human being is a moth
That flies to the fire of the candle...
It is you and me, we are such both,
But in life we all want a bright spangle!


17.4.2021, night

Israel, go ahead, time to go.
Shema.
There are no words
And there are not worlds...

Israel, sing a song,
Adonai must be blessed,
Time is coming.

Israel, there is a lot of pain,
My teeth are shaking
Like a bomb in Hiroshima,
Like an aborted foetus...

This world is aborted too
And there is no other place,
I see the holy city on fire,
In blasphemy, bitterly...

Time for exile?

So in the moment
I am looking
At my past,
Asking:
So was that my life?
Was THAT my life really?!
And, is that all?

How sad it was then!
If it was my life...
When I look at my past...

When it was my life...
If it was my life...

But it was my life.
And I cannot believe that
We were like ants... or I was
A moth flying to the light
Of the candle
To be burnt before enjoying
My sad life.

Your nice life.
Happy life, folks!

Are you saving the planet?
- ...
- Are you saving Ukraine?
- ...
- How do you want to make it if you are not saving myself? Or yourself?
- Yes.

Every rocket is such a pain
In my heart, in my stomach.

Not sure what evil can gain...
My pain is long like Potomac.

I am suffering for the world,
But I am not any Messiah,
I have not any eternal sword...
I am suffering - it's me, argh.

It is not a beetle buzzing in the reed.
It is my Jewish catharsis, it's my creed.

Oh, Jerusalem,
How is it when your heart
Is broken?

Oh, Jerusalem,
The flower of the Middle East
Awoken.

Oh, Jerusalem,
King David is coming!...
It is so foggy.

Open your gates!
In the fog, you see
The sun; it is not boggy.

Open your gates!
Let your towers kneel down
To welcome the King...

Move your gates,
Let your towers dance!
The King is here, in full swing!

With his army,
The King is coming!
Oh, Jerusalem, do not cry.

You are not like a ******.
Like Bathsheba, you know a lot:
Her heart was soft, her womb - dry.

Oh, Jerusalem, do not cry.
Like a patient, be patient;
Wait and... wait for your “Godot”.

He is on the way from Ashdod.
Like Aslan, he is coming in the spring,
Like Jesus, he loves his mystical string.

Be blessed, oh, the Flower:
David on the way to Jerusalem.

28.5.21, J.

One day
Time to go...
Away...
Who knows?

It will be a sunny day or it will be raining,
Ants will go to work or birds will be singing,
Kids will go to school and they will be painting,
But during short breaks they will be swinging.

You think that you will be still remembered
Like an icon of pop culture or a national hero...
Let you know how quickly people are forgotten!
Thus, do not wait for recognition after your death.

Just go to the light whenever you are still alive.
Just go to the light when your eyes are eternally closed.

There aren't many people in Saint Mark's Square,

There is the Way of the Cross, the memory of the Death...

And yet someone has come here and he is not bored,

He is here, he is praying and he is not fidgeting...



There is an image of the plague in Saint Mark's Square,

There are masks on the faces, there are social distances,

There are, like distant mountains, human expressions,

There are various cognitive dissonances...



There is no shortage of faith in Saint Mark's Square,

There is no empty ideology of Evil...

Sometimes someone thinks it's magic, witchcraft

And this is only the glory of the Risen One!...



Today He is laid in the tomb ... today Joseph of Arimathea,

The hidden disciple, took His body away,

He buried it in tradition, maybe in hope.

May Jewish customs be satisfied...



And yesterday behind Cedron in Gethsemane,

Yesterday in prayer, in waiting...

Jesus was caught like a common criminal,

With the Judas conspiracy...



Soon, so much will change,

Our fatigue, our torment, that's life...

The eternal world stands before you like an offering,

And in Saint Mark's Square there is a deeper being.



And there's the Satan howl somewhere, too.



And there is also hope somewhere.

And there is also a culpa somewhere... mea...

And there is also hope somewhere.





From 2. to 3.4.2021, Joe., After the Way of the Cross from the Vatican.

”Jacob Frank” said to Igue:

We both do not drive.
Both cars and our lives.
We both bite nails.
Both too sensitive.

For us both, kissing, being face to face
And feeling how we take every breath
Are the highest kind of *** possible.

Both fighting for perfection in work,
Both among duties and jobs, and screens,
Both tired and without sleeping enough,
Both writing songs about ****** life.

Both fast and furious at airports,
Both conservative in friendship
And love, and in love, and in love...
Both hidden monarchists.

We have to break the Halakhah,
We have to reject all the Torah,
It is a messianic time!

All the law has disappeared,
Love is coming, there is no law,
Only the law of love, Shahina with
Messiah.

We have to do things
Which are wrong for others
But good so much for us.

Even if condemned,
We’ll be happy, Igue.

Even if, the seagull!...
The seagull knows.

The seagull.

He/she knows.

Shahina. She.

Messiah. He.


16-18.2.2023

Try to imagine what to say because
Your field of life was destructed
As you were too bad to live,
Too bad (with an odd face and strange eyes) to look nice.

Try to imagine what to write because
There are mirrors of the unknown,
The thing you have to understand before your death
That all moths must live before their death.

But when your face looks bad and shameful,
We liberally choose the best children
And all the moths must die before their life.
There is not any sense, and life is not a value.

Clapping echoes of reality deduce impossibilities.
Scissors tear many flowers, many shy realities.

I was there and I was screaming.
While dying, I saw you, my father, you were abroad.
But I know my mother so well,
She travelled overseas,
I was killed finally in her country.
And, her doctor said, “Be more careful
From next time, this is quite a late abortion”.
I was there and then I started to be destroyed,
It was like a cell by a cell…
The suction and curettage method, they say.
Now I am in the heaven as every soul
Belongs to the God. He is here. Eternal Love.
I am innocent.
I am waiting for you, my parents,
I know that you were not married finally
After what happened.
You live in your families
And play your social roles, of parents as well,
But sometimes you think of each other and
About me. Who would I have been?
A boy? A girl?
I will not tell you now.
What would our life together have been?
“Different; maybe better, maybe worse, but different”,
My mother wrote to my father after 13 years of silence.
I will meet you maybe one day.
I know you have suffered a lot.
I have forgiven you.
I know your economic status was low and...
It was almost impossible to make me live.
I am waiting for you in the heaven.
God bless you and God bless all.
Your child.

P.S. Please, do not turn off the light in your life. I love you. I am like a little dog in a lonely house. But I am not lonely although I am waiting for you.

She said:

Oh, Newnaihr, You wrote that You lost the link,
That You got lost in the thicket of e-mails...
Oh, a clean river, "Three ways of spilling the ink"
You probably read night and day...

Oh, Newnaihr, You missed the seminar meeting,
Our faces and glances passed...
Oh, a clear river, to welcome You
I'm coming with my thoughts today...

Oh, Newnaihr, the virtual meeting rushed,
In the thicket of e-mails You came to find the way...
Oh, a sweet river, nothing happened after all,
Since we will meet with our thoughts...

Oh, Newnaihr, we will also establish our own seminar,
We will summon the spirit of Wittgenstein...
Oh, a young river, at our own Zoom-inar
We'll talk to one another...

Oh, Newnaihr, and when this pandemic is over,
When the plague is gone and they open the sky...
Oh, a beautiful river, I'll swim, I know it,
To You... and we'll go to the pub...

Oh, Newnaihr, what will it be, I ask,
When You unvirtually see me...
Oh, the Ffidrac River, yes, I see You
And yet it's just the Internet...

Oh, Newnaihr, when the plague is over,
When we go to the castle in Yllihpreac...
Oh, a proud river, ironic, that thinks
Who I am and who I am not...

O Newnaihr, Welsh seagulls will rise,
When we dream on the meadow...
Not me for You: neither You nor "we"!
We will only lie in the green...

Oh, Newnaihr, there will be nothing left,
No troubadour will remember us...
We won't do anything wrong anyway,
It's just a red, ****** garden of love.

The wisdom love.

3/21/21

Oh, the Princess of Kharkiv, a friend of the Seagull,
Don’t let you have any pangs of conscience!
When the Doctor’s window was shuttered, he chose the oceans
Of sadness to travel... to the crumbles of that sadness.
The world had not recognised him and no Maria Magdalene was offered.
Oh, the friend of the Seagull, do not have any pangs!
You were always there, always on the request, always
To fly in the clouds, to make a step in the clouds...
The first step in the clouds.
The first human in the clouds...
The first.

28.5.22

Oh, God, the sad Saviour,
"How is it when your heart
Is broken?" - asked Father Pasierb,
Meaning the Christ, who was killed by the brutal Jews
And the cynical Romans.

Oh, it was Gethsemane. Wild, sad, mad.

Jerusalem now,
How is it when your heart
Is broken? Torn into pieces like a paper
In the desk full of dust and puddles.

How to be the Gethsemane of Israel?
Eternal pain, mutual punishment,
Life like a farce, life like a sacred value.

In a world without saving justice, we're herding like donkeys,
Lost in ice-melting fields, where chaos ripples and throngs tease.
Like monkeys with umbrellas, we dance through dry meadows,
Searching for meaning in a realm where it truly never follows.

What if there's no one left, no politics or life's array,
Just a void of senseless existence, where everything's astray?
Like Saul before Damascus, night keeps us from the unknown,
Too hot, too rainy, too ablaze, we hesitate, postponing our own.

But what if all of this is merely an illusion, unreal,
And we find ourselves adrift in a world we can't reveal?
Who are we in this no-man's land of consumers, unclaimed,
Sending love's arrow to a heartless realm, hoping to be named.

Expecting the best, we let it fly, this arrow of love,
Though no guarantee exists below or high above.
For we all eventually perish, disappearing like seasons,
Gone like a drop of rain, merging with endless reasons.

So cherish your life, though limited joys may be perceived,
Hold that arrow higher, and know it's all you need.
Expectations may crumble, but still, there's hope in sight,
For saving justice of love may come in darkest night.

Be patient, like karma returning, weaving its way,
Through years and minutes, silently but sure to sway.
No one knows when, or if, its arrival will be true,
But let's believe in that promise, for it offers hope anew.

In the meantime, humans are like ants, scurrying with speed,
Working hard and dying quickly, fulfilling every need.
So let's hold on to that arrow, keeping faith, come what may,
For the saving justice of love, one day, may light our way.

Yesterday, I faltered, afraid to go to the church,
Anxiety looming, I didn't want to feel the lurch.
Preferably, at home I sought a moment's calm,
Knowing in my heart, we wouldn't embrace the psalm.

Uncertain of the date, was it the 18th or the 10th?
Contemplating if the mass would even relent,
Though I wagered on the 10th, doubt pervaded my mind,
Convinced it wasn't so, my thoughts unaligned.

Stress unleashed its fury, a sudden attack,
But escape, I realized, was something I'd lack.
Can't flee from our stories, from our history's page,
Imperfect, perhaps, but mine to engage.

Not morally flawless, my life's not a pristine art,
Yet it exists, undeniable, a tale full of heart.
This journey I traverse with actions and thoughts,
Moments, dreams, and emotions, all the plots.

Leaving traces behind, reminiscences so dear,
Love unrestrained, I couldn't always adhere.
Ideas that eluded, thoughts set free to roam,
Perhaps I'll remain as mere particles of loam.

But something endures, beyond what I can perceive,
A legacy untold, what it is, I can't conceive.
Maybe love I couldn't give, yet had in my core,
Or scattered musings left to explore.

Maybe, just maybe, I'm a whisper in time,
With secrets unfathomable, sublime.
Through the tapestry of life, we each have our own thread,
An idea, a notion, within ourselves widespread.

In the evening's glow, I turn the page,
Sharing tales of old and knowledge sage,
To children's hearts, my words I lend,
Bible stories and the universe we transcend.

Within the vastness of celestial lights,
Planets, stars, and galaxies take flight,
The world we ponder, unimaginably wide,
And in its enormity, we find our stride.

Yet, why are we here, in this cosmic sea,
Pascal's feeble reed, yet so great are we,
Embarking on a journey of culture and art,
Weaving ethics, life with every beat of our heart.

But alas, the darkness that stains our realm,
Evil deeds and wrongs inflicted overwhelm,
Damage, violence, anger entwined,
A sorrowful truth in this vast design.

This universe, so grand, so vast,
Can bring moments of sadness that last,
And in those times, we question, we ponder,
Does meaning exist? Are we destined to wander?

Is my sense of purpose, my own true flame,
Or simply a creation, an illusion without name,
Faith beckons, whispers truths untold,
In the depths of our being, its roots unfold.

For amidst this expanse, a true faith must lie,
A beacon of wisdom, guiding us high,
For there must be some truth, without a doubt,
A flicker of hope, in this cosmos about.

So, let us seek the answers, with hearts sincere,
Embrace the truths that we hold dear,
For in the tapestry of this intricate whole,
We'll discover the sense, the purpose of our soul.

Silence is better than words-swords,
Building is better than destroying,
Love is better than hatred,
A ****** than a ****,
You than me,
...
(TBC)