the book in Esperanto

I always know for sure when it is full Sunday
by the way my viscera is folded and covered inside
the sun cannot be caught today it’s like a fearful hedgehog but
things still have a soft velvety shadow
Ophelia still sings lullabies for the garden snails in their shell
hiding behind wild raspberry and whitewashed walls healing sighs
that won’t yield their soul from the rib cage
Daniel still fights dreams and clutches the dragon’s horns
after all Heraclitus was not right
in my brain there’s a gold mine a thick vein searched over and over
by miners with lamps in their hands and mining helmets
always at the same foraging point

from all these in the end only love will be left
love as a pure ore for you – my wingless love good folks Samaritans
for every wound crossroads pathway all of them leading towards the sun
since a good age onward

Fiat Lux

on the corridor without light
every proprietor has his door
behind which he repairs
floors walls windows
he sharpens blunt knives
chops food for dogs
parsley leaves for soup

have you seen somehow nobody
I’m asking the closed doors
with the back still straight
in this wonderland nobody is crying
the others are blind for autumn colors
they place eyelid over eyelid
lightly like leaf upon leaf
heaps of eyes without eyeballs
without opening

I can still see to knock on doors
stretching forth the charity box
in the dark
hopes are thin fingers
touching lightly the globe
a toy that doesn’t turn
and yet it staggers

the sun shows up beyond the clouds
every time silence is here

Clockwise Order

Working hard with my heart
denouncing its transitory tick-tock,
decorating it with artificial flowers,
keeping the hope linked to its fibers,
stopping the fancy arrhythmia,
postponing the boredom infarct.

While luckily
I wasn’t a magician.

.

Cold Spring

In the early mornings
leaves hearts are sacrificed
cold cherries are turning red
fresh grasses toughen
left by dew drops
as usual

Stones grow or lessen on the road
through each rain
notched wooden blinds close
or open still green
behind every shady wall
sleeps an old doll in its cradle

I walk with my straight back
among frozen flower buds
wrapping my front and my waist
in unwoven veils of fortune
reversely

I hide a cold spring
waiting for wild wheat to sprout
under all these

Refrains

the hours on a straight road
are measured in shadows
a spindle spins the time
two steps forward one step behind

either winter or summer
I believed I was in love
stranger to others and to myself
a storm torch was slurping my eyes
smooth like soft boiled eggs
I was lighting vigil candles in a cave

the passage seasons were short
night tunnels covered a train of dreams
digging a minute of oblivion

for a while three bells tolled at once
my arms couldn’t reach my back spine
to stop the earthquake
my heart fell on my ankle
like a canon ball in a gaolbird chain
no matter how I try to lie
I just can’t fly to the moon

memories are propped with songs
which no one sings along
in triple time beat
I chose to walk the shortest road
known by everyone
except for endings

I believed I was in love
a broken credo is a cornerstone
for another church

.