I wrote my first poem when I was about eighteen. But it wasn't just like that, I had to write it down. It felt amazing. I hadn't been composing love letters or keeping a diary or anything of a kind before. Now I know I only wrote at turning points in my life, at times when I was getting to some important conclusions and making life-changing decisions.

A few times – when that something held me and wouldn't let me go – a most incredible thing happened: the words were flowing through me, not out of me. It was such a great feeling.

Why these few notes? Because they are a record of a certain period, of a wonderful time from the last years of grammar school to the end of my studies at the university. Because they might tell something to someone. And because I'm leaving now, going to another place, and I would like everything to be as it should.

Well, I can go now... Towards great new adventures.


(... translation still in process ...)



It was lightening behind him
and hardly audibly rumbling.
He was talking, talking…
I don't know if he knew what.
I was listening, listening…
I know I didn't know what.

A drop over the edge…
But only in a moss-grown gutter.
I shield myself from dropping drops.
If there's no other way I raise the edge.

After and because of that I left.
But the drops kept thronging over the edge



* * *

Nostalgia for the past that never really happened. (Only my nostalgia attacks are more miserable than our cat.)

Whom to believe in a time when even the pictures lie?



BEYOND (Far away, so close)

there … far … beyond the borders of everyday
timelessness is spilling out
tomorrow is yesterday
and infinity dissolves within a moment

there … far … beyond the borders of the body
shadows of feelings are roving
the light melts with the dark
and a soapy bubble caresses a rose

there … far … beyond the borders of the reason
the truths are floating
and their closeness veils the sight
and knits a membrane of despair

there … far … far beyond the borders of the self
an infinite world is stifling
with insane speed oblivions are being silent
waiting for their freedom




The sky was over the earth
and merged with it from time to time.
By now it has become too heavy -
it crashed on earth with its full weight
and crushed into countless small pieces.
The flocks of angels have fallen from the sky
straying about the surface with broken wings
and torpid looks.
They're not searching for anything
any more.
The sky has sank through a riddle of soil
into the kingdom of Hades.



* * *

That heart was empty.
Even more than that, it was dusty
and respun with cobwebs.
But the webs are very old.

Now it doesn't let in no one,
not even a spider.

(Inspired by Ezra Pound.)



* * *

A mirror.
I'm approaching it. Timidly.
I step before it with eyes closed
collecting all of my courage:
Who? … What? …
I gaze into the flat
and wait for the reflection.
But it doesn't come.
I close my eyes again, open them
and see
an image
gazing towards me
but through me into the flat
and waiting for the reflection.




Sometimes I dream that I dream.
In a dream I wake up and think to myself: It was all just a dream, the clouds are not cream and the sea near my house on the shore of the island does not scent like a lilac at all!
Then I get up and put on glass slippers with butterflies on them instead of a bow and fly out of the room on a bench of an oak tree.
But then I wake up again thinking to myself: It was all just a dream, the slippers with butterflies can not really fly and the holy oak tree does not grow in the near.

Some day my dreams will be never-ending, just like that multiplied image you see in two mirrors on opposite walls. And I will not wake up at all.

It is just that … how can I know I am awake now?




I cannot help it. I still have doubts.
But I want to believe! Just like back then when the sock on the fireplace filled up with sweets was a good enough proof that Santa exists.
I want to feel. Just like back then when it was enough just to know you were safe and near.
I want connection. The real one. Just like back then when I tasted a teaspoon of cream from the top of warm cocoa and the one sitting with me knew right away that Proust's cakes happened to me.
I want fullness, wholeness. Just like back then when I was sitting alone in peace and I suddenly felt how everything is just right, how everything is exactly as it should be.




Maybe I've changed.
But maybe you've never really known me.
It doesn't really matter – as long as you love me.




There is nowhere to evade from life
Since you are life and you cannot escape from yourself
And when you think you die a different life begins
No way out from the swirl of life
Since there's nothing but the swirl
With thousands of worlds and feelings and sounds
Projected within and without
Think you are yours?
Just an illusion
Only as along as you are black and white
When you are just white you are the big white
What we all are
When you are just black it is the big black
What every thing is




They use force to achieve peace
We are sure force needs to cease

They start wars to earn more money
We want people to feel sunny

They kill living creatures for fun
We claim killing must be shunned

They show us pictures full of violence
What we need is inner silence

They only look for worldly pleasure
We know bliss is worth to treasure

They fight for more and more power
We aim for more and more love

They push us to work so they'll have more profit
We give them a piece of advice: better stop it

They exploit people who are weak
We tell those people they're unique

They look for the guilty to name
We take our own share of the blame

They seed fear in people's hearts
We rather fill them with fine arts

They take what they want to gain
We give what we'd like to obtain

They fight for more and more power
We aim for more and more love

They don't really care about next generations
We'd like to save nature for all future nations

They offer us stupid things to desire
We know but real beauty is to admire

They want to close that Heaven's door
We plan to step through and reach more

They try to ignore our voice
We tell them that's the poorest choice

They've got weapons that they hoard
But the pen is mightier than sword

They fight for more and more power
We aim for more and more love

They do horrors in God's name
But it's the worst sin not a game

They limit our freedom of choice
We need to be free and rejoice

They build new Babylon towers
We find God in simple flowers

They cannot see what's next to come
But we can hear the angels drum

We are now prepared to see them
All we want is our freedom