Poetry for the Oceans

The Prologue:

Be gentle with the body, with the mind, and with the falling snow

Time and tide waits for none, though I know not where they go

The past is in your eyes, the present and the future in your naked breasts

Please don’t cover my skies up, for hope and sparrows seek their nests

The Beginning of the Journey:

There’s no sound here, nothing, save that single bullet shot

I’m not true, you know, – it’s just a dream my father begot

And see the moonlight falling on the scars I’ve left behind

Memories, sweet memories – frostbitten, with ribbons to bind

Now it’s time to sleep, Mother Midnight, sleep makes amends

I’ll send postcards from the other side – like the ones she sends

The west wind gave me a flute, but I’d gifted it to the sea

The sea gave me a dream, but I’d opened the cage and set it free

The Body:

The dream had reached the stars, the stars – they lie crucified now

Too much blood on the streets, I need to get out of here somehow

The walls are closing down, and I have shadows to play hide and seek with

There’s a candle burning somewhere, there’s a sword I couldn’t unsheathe

A million dreams to dream, a million songs to sing, a million stories to weave

So much to do, but I’m tired, Sisyphus, friend, I’m sorry, but I, I must leave

And now, for the symphony, the melancholy, and all the other things I forgot

They are for you, for I didn’t seek your love, you know, it’s just you that I sought

The Soul:

And when I’ll cry by the river – “I need to sleep with you, beside you, on your bed!”

Promise me that you’ll let me rest, that you won’t make me make love to you instead

The sun doesn’t set on the sea; it goes down on those bluish sands of the shore

And I’ve run out of tears today, and thus I see you now like I’d never seen before

The Snow:

The old bridge had broken down, the city was on fire, the sirens rang out so loud

I saw him lying dead – Mayakovski, my friend, with his Trouser and his Cloud

But now I’ve fallen asleep, water runs through my vein –

Water – of a thousand years, the rain… the lifeless rain

In Holy Books, they say, once there had been a great flood

But what shall the painter do, if he can’t paint with his own blood?

And what shall the sculptor do, if he can’t mould his own truant flesh?

Yet, I hope – that the morning will be new, I hope that the flowers will be fresh….

The Epilogue:

“Lay him down, lay him down, lay him down” – they’ll say

“Lay him down by the sea, and see the waves wash him away”

“Let him sleep, let him sleep, let him sleep” – I’ll hear them cry

They’ll think I am dead, they’ll be wrong – for I shall never die….