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

White

I’m turning in a slow motion
a photographic film losing its color.
From my house bricks
it rains with memories,
spread like sea salt on the shore.

Colors gather between clouds
floating over trees,
white cherry flowers sway,
their shadow on grandma’s window.

The roof is covered with old snow
and lost letters ashes,
walls are whitewashed
with pale butterfly wings.

I’m shaking in silence my white hair,
it falls in the dust without footprints,
my arms, my head, my smile drop down,
washed away in the moonlight.

The last white morning stars
brought back into my life
yesterday’s light.

Somewhere in Spring

the neon lights is stifling
dry carnations on the night table
a breeze slips
through the half opened window
blowing chestnut flowers
fresh thorns in a stretched palm
perfusion tubes stagger slightly
the patient’s moan clings
to the upper bar of feelings
in a crowded trolley bus
visitors come and go
the old woman falls asleep
crouching in her bed
like a child on nut shells
facing the corner

in the morning chloride vapors blend
on the floor shining like melting ice
life monitors in the emergency room
are ticking and buzzing
louder than wasp swarms
a round spot of sunlight
fills in a honeycomb on the bed sheets
it is still spring

Cockchafer

If it’s full moon I can’t cry,
questions are freezing in my mind,
fingers are stretching through glove holes.
I promise myself to mend them
but memory drawers are locked.

Maybe you told too many stories,
(I still believed in blue fairies)
night butterflies armies
overwhelmed the white lilac
bending towards us,
we were sipping a lime tea
(so bitter and sour)
from the same glass,
the sands squeaked under our steps
like crystal sugar.

When the moon waned
I sent you a teardrop
wearing a cockchafer plate.
It popped on the shoe point
and you crushed it.

Spring Waters

I can still remember
that clock hanging on the wall,
a time that I was not allowed
to turn on key,
peacefully listening to it
in the autumn rain.

There were childhood mornings
with half-closed eyes,
eyelids were sticking
like snails to an old fence
on the sheets filled with colored balloons
smelling like hand made soap
and apricot jam.

So many sledges blunted the snow
that I’ve almost forgot how it was:
wax dripping slowly from the Christmas tree,
me cutting flowers in glossy paper,
grandmother knitting and dozing,
waters flowing, waters freezing,
the teapot sizzling with lime tree flowers
from a spring without calendars.