the Snow Globe

in the forest of nothingness
I was following the voiceless echo
and found myself again, lost
between the tree trunks

the fastidious silence is thickening
pushing me out
blinding me with fog
like an alien body
that distorting it’s perfect harmony

you are holding the Snow Globe
in your little hands
very close to your mouth
your lips are almost touching the glass

whispering a wish
the glass gets foggy from your breath

and the voiceless words are echoing inside the Globe

three little flowers of the green field


three little flowers of the green field
are growing in silence and peace
under the yellow sun, that is pinned to the blue sky

three little flowers of the green field
watching him laying embraced by the grass
is he looking into the blue sky and the yellow sun?

three little flowers of the green field
is it a tear or maybe a dew in each of your eyes?
the drop that is reflecting the sun in the blue sky

three little flowers of the green field
he is not looking into the sky
and those are the tears in your eyes

three little flowers of the minefield

the secret of contraction

traffic lights
thoughts aligned with the highway traffic
endless streets
brain convolutions
emergency flashers
whipping the thick twilight
The Secret of Contraction
darkness is oblate along its axis of symmetry
I created you in my mind
now I don’t have a space for myself

the widow

she was standing next to the open grave
her heavy shining boots in the red clay
semiotics of the sexual militarism

her arms were crossed over her chest
the thick red nail polish
was the perfect decoration of her tight black dress
boiling blood

neutral makeup
she was biting her lower lip

I didn’t see her eyes behind the fringe of her hair
(the future will come earlier than we may think)