When the winter is over, –
a spring will come, and maybe
summer at once.
You’ll ask me: “Will it always be like that?”
and I’ll answer: “No, there is nothing eternal in the Creation.
Everything once comes to an end, –
sooner or later. ”
“Fool, don’t be a smart ass as always”, – you’ll say, –
“I’m talking about spring, and you’re already buried the summer!”
A quintessential cello
a subatomic blues is disintegrating
from its body.
touching primal strings,
causing the time to change its direction.
He is creating worlds,
while I am enjoying his music;
with my meaty ears and
I was thinking about God,
and how He creates this world
using letters and the infinite light;
black light on a white.
what about myself,
not a poet, just trying to write;
black letters on white.
sometimes I feel lonely when I write,
or maybe I write because I feel lonely?
(I know it is only a feeling)
God is always one and He is obsolete; we’re always looking for someone, to be somehow complete.
my father says, any artists are lonely in the world they create.
enveloped by the insouciance,
carried by the perception.
hopes for a smooth glide
with your eyes closed.
a cosmic smirk,
a predetermined randomality.
stuck in the tunnel,
stuck in the fallopian tube.
missed by a moment,
late by a lifetime.
they looked at the plain grey sky
the tin sun was hiding behind the clouds
all their hopes and all the myths about them
were already undertaken
and only nakedness of their souls
was covered by the nakedness of their bodies
and there was next morning