Saturday, April 1, 2023



The Man By My Side


The man by my side is a walking stick dropped on the road.

And it’s been so long I’ve been walking bent over him.

Now I straighten up and learn to walk again.

The body grown heavy sways likes the point of a balance.

And the world leans on me.


Two Rivers Keep Writing

By My Father’s Home


the name of victory.


How many years since his daughters –

two swans –

                   have learned to read…

The bridges, built by him, have survived –

                   One made of rough stone –

it doesn’t feel how the water demolishes it fondly;

                   the other one – knitted out of ropes and air –

a cradle rocked by destiny.


But what can one gain victory over

in just a lifetime?!

                   From the first bridge death fell,

it is still fishing for trout under the second one.

                   It doesn’t reach for you, if you feed it,

                   it doesn’t come, unless you drive it away.


The nettle picker

                   stops in front of my home –


                   as a fairy-tale.

And, what good luck,

                   she enters my poem

                                                                   by herself.

My friends stop drinking,

the children are astounded:

does the prince


                                                          not get stung,

                   once he holds her in his arms

                                                          instead of me?


About The Bones Of Tongue


we judge by the remnants of dinosaurs.

About silence –

by the imprints of mollusks

                                      on the bottom,

which heaves the mountain today.



          the signs of war be ossified,

          it was already over.

I have never had such need of time

as a motion

          which sweeps away




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