Tuesday, January 12, 2010


Is this everything?

Or is it just that good old you and me?

Is everything for my own?

For my very own satisfaction?

Even the old half dead moon?

Everything like shame

Like the last crime of unwritten sleep

And of those vacant dreams of the last trees

The whole night

And of the silence

Walking through… Just the walking trees

And of the mute songbirds

Tired… tired….


How long ? Oh how long?

Tired evenings

Evenings are always tired

Are they not?

They remind us of old cities

Don’t they?

Old colours


And insects



And other faces

Old faces

They’re meant to laugh

The boy

His face on her lap

Old face

Isn’t it so?

Not even a dream

Neither peace

Hands and thoughts
and the final zero

Like empty men

And the face of life and

Life of the smell of salt, of dreams, and


Over the splashing

Of our heads

Shall we?


We gave birth

Of our very own children
of Loneliness

Of stars

I fell in love

How many girls?

And how many stars

And salt

And gods

And salts

And salts

And peace

And sleeping all alone

In the twilight

In the twilight that

Ever exists…

And all feelings

All those feelings…

They never exist

Do they? Do they?

And olden rotten

Me and you

Love… Love…Love….

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