It’s a bright sunny day outside.
Inside her childhood memories are slipping away,
sinking deeper and deeper into electricity. 

In this burning psychedelic daydream,
her cerebellum’s doing backflips and somersaults, 
spinning rooms with fading hopes.

She sees the doctor’s dark eyes through the fog,
his hand twisting her fate with every turn,
her body convulses like a flapping salmon.

She bites down on the rubber mouthpiece,
her only anchor in this barbaric delight.

Smoke rings rising to the top,
brain cells flicker like a flashing traffic light,
high pitched voices of opera singers,
black swans floating on muddy rivers.

Her body smells of smouldering rubber.
Her soul tells her never to give up.
​

​In my mind,
I’m still a little cowboy
sitting on a wooden
hobby horse
on my parents' shag
carpet.

I could barely walk upright
and only knew a few words
like mommy, daddy and
ice-cream on good days.

I wore a ten-gallon hat,
slipped into a pair of Tony Lamas,
and pulled up my Wrangler jeans.

I rode the dusty canyon path
and played my guitar,
heated up weenies on an open
fire.

I rocked my wooden
hobby horse
under a Montana full moon,
down the dusty roads,
up the rocky inclines
chasing cattle rustlers
and men on
Most Wanted posters.

I could ride forever in my mind,
I could lasso up all the 
calves and steers I could find.
I could capture all the bad guys, 
put them behind bars 
and still be ready for dinnertime.

​Grandpa puts a Lipton teabag in the cup
and drinks tea while looking out the window
in the house that he built.
He told me a story about how he endured the desert heat,
how he woke up early in the morning 
and supervised a hundred men doing highway work.

Grandpa drinks tea while munching on a sugar cookie,
looks out the window at his big, yellow flowers
and daydreams about his long life in Spanish.

He told me about how the dam once broke,
how the water poured into the valley and flooded Santa Paula,
how he survived the flood that carried many of his friends away.

He told me about the Mexican woman he married in Arizona,
how they won all kinds of money at a Las Vegas casino,
how they drove back and forth in their Buick LeSabre.
The story about his life is simple but honest.
He woke before sunrise and did hard work,
his fingers are old and bony where there once was strength. 

Grandpa takes the last sip of his tea from the cup,
closes his eyes 
and daydreams about his long life in Spanish.

​Every time I eat exotic food,
I get weird dreams.

It must be the person
who prepares the meal,
I determine.

A short order cook, perhaps
with wide hands
and stubby fingers
or the sous chef
with a furrowed brow
and a ponytail.

The cook's life experiences:
fears, family circumstances,
relationships that have gone sour,
successes and failures,
crimes of narrow escape.

Or perhaps those hot love affairs
that have managed to enter my belly
in the form of  Swedish meatballs
or a Chinese salad with a sweet vinaigrette.

The food seems to bare the essence
of the cook who prepares it,
as if the person’s blood were circulating
through the Bouillabaisse. 

The meal is in my dreams
climbing up a steep wall,
eluding entrapments,
accidentally stepping into 
dark, forbidden halls.

As the cook stands over the stove 
and tosses the vegetables into a wok,
I could hear his whole life sizzle

He struggles to catch up
with those who seem
to be further along, 
skims the rim of a cereal bowl,
tiptoes across the yellow line.

Up all night,
awake like a blinking strobe light
He slides down a slippery pole
greased in his own body fat,
trying to figure out the world
through a plastic Sippy straw.

Crooked eyes,
frazzled nerves and sizzled hair
the master of intellectual
doublespeak,
the world’s foremost authority
comes up with the cure,
writes the best novel,
and has the answer to life’s 
most pressing
problem.

Cycling between good and evil,
he believes he’s a God,
a hero, a devil,
supernaturally
imposed.

Conks out right on the red Target ball,
believes that jumping off a cliff
with paper wings and goggles
would be a credible solution,
retribution, salvation, absolution--
Even a colonic cleanse.
​

​I listened to Ottis on the radio
 yelled out the song as people came past
must have  thought I was some kind of lunatic
but I did not care
the way I have always not cared 
even when  I was at rock bottom
some people do not get up 
but day after day
up  I get like the man off the cross
nothing can stop me

​I keep finding this poem on the floor
it tells of a different time
of a person sure he was different from everybody else
So sure he risked everything 
I am not sure I am the same person on that page
but at least I still believe

​The woman came up to me at the party 
at which I did not have a ticket
She asked me who I was
asked if I was in insurance
no I could never do that I tell her
as I held her hand she said
you walk up and down here not talking to anybody
as if you were an angel.
And for a second I really thought it could be possible
she asked for her hand back shortly after that
then I started to dance and the night really took off

​there she goes
the one with the big botty
around and around she goes
like nothing else or no one else.
I find that with all women
none are the same as another one
perhaps that is why I want them all
even at the same time would be good
we could live in a skyscraper 
that touches the clouds but with all the doors and walls knocked out
like a giant car park
or a giant ark floating on the endless sea. 
Just me and my girls and all that love to keep us afloat

I walked into the church a woman was playing the piano
I went over to her and told her that she played lovely
She told me it was Tchaikovsky and then she told me her wedding was tomorrow
and why didn't I come
I never went to  her wedding but a few days later I went back to the church and thought about playing the piano not that I can play of course
when I went over to the piano there was no piano almost as if that magical moment had never happened
​

​Sometimes the day casually raked its claws down her
and they could not understand
that she would withdraw
to silence and to peace
waiting for the wounds to heal.
 

​I will put you carefully away
like any precious, once-loved thing.
Wrapped completely
in a box
seeming too small
to contain so very much.
I will grasp you, then -
the tiniest shard of you -
held so warm and close
tight in the palm of my hand.
A tiny piercing;
a moment of beautiful pain.
And if those fingers
curled so close around
that last precious fragment of you
were to open slowly -
one finger at a time -
the stigmata would still weep.

​And then the fire
the light
the heat of you
molten on my mouth
searing on my skin.
Your gaze – a flame
your touch – a forest fire.
It was only
when I burned with pain
that I understood
too late
I did not know
how to put you out.
 

​They have given up;
their house is marked for sale.
I drive past this sign each morning –
watch it slip and list into an unkempt hedge.
Slowly – in a sad reflection
of what they cannot save –
it loses its balance.
Leans languidly in towards its tipping point.
Slips beyond.
And falls. 

​When it is dark enough, you can see the stars. (Ralph Waldo Emerson.)
It was the possibility of darkness that made the day seem so bright. (Stephen King.)
 
You, my song of Innocence,
You, my tale of Experience;
You, first my dawn and then my darkest night.
You, who gave me such luminous vision;
How could I know you were simply reflected light?  
 

​The writer from everywhere and anywhere is interested in human rights issues. The writer wants to foster the whole world. Some of the writings apppeared in countercurrents.org, conterview.org, counterview.net, velivada.com, dissidentvoice.org, tuckmagazine.com, poemHunter.com , virasam.org, etc.

​I was born 
As black as darkness 
To my 'dark' mother 
Who toiled as a laborer under the scorching sun

I was born 
Crying aloud 
Synchronised with wailing of my mother  reverberating in the darkness 
' O! God! This is girl- child' !

Nobody visited ...
Only stars twinkled far away .. 
Leaving me groping for light
I grew with darkness 

As my best companion 
Working as bonded labourer 
Cleaning and clearing shit 
In the posh houses 

Where my- aged children enjoyed 
Sunlight !
Now, 
I shall ' light' my darkness 
​
With the faint light of stars 
With firm resolution 
That my girl- child' may be as black as darkness 
But will always choose sunlight 
As perennial companion

​If I declare on TV channels live
That two and two make five
Don't raise your finger in anger
Or try to vehemently counter ...

If I find evidence of stem cell research
In all the scriptures I search
Don't contradict my contention
Else, you'll be booked for sedition

If I  order to stop drinking water
And quench thirst by any other liquid wha
Don't protest against the decision
Saying violation of free expression ...

Immerse in patriotism
And staunch nationalism
Don't think and analyse
And find logic and cause

As long as you desist and evade
Calling ' a spade a spade '
And follow ruthlessly, whatever policies are made
You will be revered and honored
And all controversies smothered ! !

​I boarded a passenger train
To reach my destination ...
A beggar boarded the train
To continue his begging again

My destination has a beginning
The beggar's is an affair ongoing
My working place is outside the train
The beggar's work itself is in train

Both use train for our livelihood
I use it as a medium and the beggar for obtaining food
Both of us have similar ultimate goals
To feed ourselves and our family hungry souls
​
We are passengers in a different way
But our mission is not different and far away
We have differences of profession
But similar is our future vision

​Power is dangerous ...
The mobilisation of public opinion 
Is dangerous ...

But you need ' power' to rule 
Totallitarian power to grip 
Your throne ...

Divide power to protect ' power' ...

Discriminate and disseminate 
Concentration of power 
By race, class, gender 
Social and economical 
Cultural or ethical 
Separation ....
​
Divide and divide 
Only then, can you rule...!

​This sunset
Is like proletarian blood
Spilled over the skies
Is like the calm after the storm
Of a gruelling day' s turmoil

It is like the blue ocean
Engulfed by red soil
Many sunsets have passed
In history
Many struggles have faded
Like the sunset dissolving into night

This sunset
Was enjoyed by kings and queens
And elite poets
Sitting on cozy lawns
Or watching waves of water
Tinged with red - crimson sunlight ......

This sunset
Has shined on the sweat smeared bodies
Of farmers returning from fields
Or manual labor walking towards
Their homes
Or industrial workers
Scampering towards their families
Tired of maintaining machinery

​This sunset
Reflects future aspirations
Of turbulent mankind
Seeking peace and equality
And enjoy its perpetual beauty

Roaring winds engulfing vast tracts of land
Accompanying with torrents of rain
Drenched fully all forms of life stand
Helpless, homeless, hopeless in pain ..

Strewn all over the place
Floatig corpses, falling trees
Stench emanating from rotten bodies
Creating nausea among rescuing people

Still they clean the drudgery
Helping people trapped in calamity
Risk their lives saving others
Bearing their sonorous cries

Who should be blamed for the nature's fury
Humanity should answer this query
If they don't care for climate change enough
They should be prepared for future tough
​
Clock is ticking and dooms day near
There are ample reasons for fear
Only if human beings realize
The tragedy can be averted but not otherwise

​Stones are strange
With stories storage
From times immemorial
They carefully conceal

Stones were used as tools
With precision and rules
Defending against wild animals and enimies
Grouping themselves into protective armies

The carvings reflect past thoughts
Great works of unknown sculptors
Stones guided humans make fire
To cook food and knowledge acquire

Stones document suppressed history
People's lives shrouded in mystery 
By engraving conditions of past 
They show future what has been lost

Anger is expressed by stone pelting 
Emotions reflected in stone carving 
Art is reflected in beautiful building 
Craft expressed in meticulous designing 
Kings orders on stone inscriptions 
Tribal rights on stone slabs 
Remembering the dead by obituaries 
On neatly polished and crafted graves

Stones have much to say 
For the historians of the day 
To study the hidden contents 
And decipher different meanings

​To preserve power
And tide over
Imminent crisis
You create obstacles  -
Physical separation
Racial discrimination
Religious and caste segregation
Pseudo- nationalist indoctrination....!
You create barriers -
Construct concrete walls
Draw iron curtains
Spread barbed wires
Install heavily armed forces ....!
But
Ideas percolate through osmosis
You cannot stop dissenting voices
Emerging from fetters
And rising  crescendo
And tornado
Against tyrannical rulers
With oppressive policies
You may confine people in isolation
But, can't stop minds from liberation ....!!

In quest of your wealth
We dig deep into the earth

To develop your industries
We risk our lives

You boast of increase in production
We die due to poisonous gasses and axphixiation

In your pursuit of profits and production
We work to Stace off starvation

You expand through excavation
We leave ur bodies for ' sedimentation' !

You live happily in cozy houses
We leave behind wailing children and spouses
​
You never try to imagine our situation 
Because it is beyond your imagination ..!

​

(Inspired by the Winslow Homer painting, The Fox Hunt, 1893, oil on canvas.)
 
Ravenous, shrieking, their glossy wings spread wide,
and starved to madness by the winter’s fury,
two crows prey upon a fox, veer and dive.
 
With thunderous beats, they spin, almost collide
above a stark, snow-covered field by the sea.
Ravenous, shrieking, their glossy wings spread wide,
 
the crows must kill in order to survive.
With little else in view to eat but berries,
the crows who prey upon the fox veer, dive.
 
The fox looks every way. No place to hide.
Such danger as this the fox could not foresee,
while ravenous, shrieking, their wings spread wide,
 
the crows, determined not to be denied
another meal, hover above their quarry.
The crows who prey on a fox, veer and dive
 
as a gull perched on a nearby rock cries.
But is it too late for the hunted fox to flee?
Ravenous, shrieking, their glossy wings spread wide,
two crows who prey on a fox veer, then dive.
 
 

​(Inspired by The Mermaid, an oil painting by Howard Pyle, 1910, American.)
 
 
“Beneath the waves the sweetest love is made.
Into my arms, descend, discover bliss.”  
Upon a summer night, she sings -- the mermaid.
 
“Soft as the wind, soft as a serenade,
Soft as my parted lips will be each kiss
Beneath the waves while sweetest love is made.
 
“See how the moon upon the ocean paved
For you a sparkling road? Come, follow this.”
Upon a summer night, she sings -- the mermaid.
 
“With me you have no need to feel afraid,
So, let us embrace in the sea’s abyss.
Beneath the waves the sweetest love is made.
 
“For promise of such passion men would trade
Life for death. And what dreams -- to reminisce
Upon this summer night!” she sings, -- the mermaid.
 
“Upon my naked breast let your head be laid
My love. To resist my charms is senseless.
Beneath the waves the sweetest love is made
On a summer night.”  She sings -- the mermaid.
 
 

​Too late they’ve come to save his foot and calf:
A shark with tiger eyes and teeth of horror
Lunges to bite the naked boy in half
Who bleeds and thrashes in Havana Harbor.
His rescuers -- a frantic crew of nine --
Have sped their small brown craft into the fray.
A desperate black man stands, throws out a line,
And two young men out of the boat halfway,
Stretching their arms too far to save their friend,
Are grabed by a shouting man before they spill
Into the sea. Unable to bear the end,
Some cringe. On the bow one lifts a gaff. “Kill
It now,” all yell, and Watson thinks this breath’s
His last, but -- (splash) -- the monster reels in death.

​. . . soft as the lips I kiss in memories . . .
yellow, like her hair,
hair my fingers combed . . .
the peel’s brown spots, like freckles
that weeks of summer sun
by a glittering bay bestowed on her . . .
riper than the last ones we ate a decade back:
we sit together, tears falling
as we eat our buckwheat pancakes,
bananas heaped on the cooled grain, and we’re
not sure who needs help the most.
You or I?
Plates clatter. We lift forks
with hands that tremble,
and though it’s hard
to swallow the truth, we try.
A lone gull’s wail
as it pecks among pebbles
echoes in the solitary nights that lie ahead.
So much we’d say -- forever left unsaid.
 
 
 

​and I’m wide awake as thoughts trickle
from my brainfaucet. My therapist is away
 
on vacay, leaving me to slosh my dead feet
across flooded floorboards. She gave me
 
the number of the on-call doc in case I wake up
chasing my fears around the room, or start to drown
 
in the waterfall of odd regrets and leftover hopes.
 
I’m sure I lost the on-call’s number. And hell,
she’s probably asleep. Meanwhile, my 4 a.m. life
 
is like a dress I thought would fit better but now
is crumpled in a chair where soon it will be submerged
 
in waterthoughts, get all shriveled up,
a lost cause waiting to be put
 
in the goodwill pile. Of course,
I’m talking about the dress.

​is the same as calling.  Wasn’t it supposed
to help me let go?  Wasn’t it supposed
to stop the wanting?  But instead, I still
think about you.  Long for your longing.
What would that look like, I wonder.
Probably the opposite of how you looked
at me last time we met.  Nothing but empty coolness
in your eyes.  I could have been anyone to you,
instead of the person I wanted to be.  The one who
has something you need so bad, that you will search
for it anywhere on me and do it for as long as it takes.
But clearly, that will never happen.  You will always
look at me cool, indifferent, friend.  I wish you could
see how much I have stopped needing you .  How
I’m not calling.  How easy I can slide away.  Do you
even notice how much strong I have become? 
Tell me.  Do you?  Do you?

​to here.
No, higher.
Empire State building
fed up.  King Kong
fed up.  How long
have you got fed up.
 
Wanna hear a story?
Okay, boy meets girl.
Boy meets girl’s best
friend.  You already
know how this story ends.
 
I’m how old,
and I’ll tell you
what I know
about men
…
there that was it.
Wanna hear it again?
 

​and the sunlight slumps over
the roof, and sleep starts to gather
in your legs, your eyes, and the rooms
fill with vanishing light, and pockets
of the day become part of you, and you
are just another body now, reaching
for night dreams to tell you who
were, who you are, or who
will become, and if you ever
do get an answer, you might
believe it was there the entire
time, right in front of you, waiting,
just waiting for you to stand still. 

Daughter of death she inhaled darkness and exhaled the light of universe
she wears the colour of fall and the skies become cloudy With rain drops of forgiving water
she doesn't cry as much as I do but she gets weak by the graveyard As she reads children names
her birthday is my depression day grief weeps from reading about my joys While joy cries from watching me in sorrow
she loves watching broken trees with branches all over my bleeding arms her favourite meal is the homeless dinner
her heart beats with the gravedigger’s work standing next to him, shamelessly drunk from collecting all parents during the war
​she laughs from watching their kids I asked her to be fair and feed the orphans she feeds them with Eve’s poison apple to die

​You know that I miss you
but I truly believe that your
spirit has been by my yearning
in which, when I cry my tears
will come from my sad heart
​and not from my giant brain

Today, half of a yellow sun arises  
due to the civil war that forces the 
kids to use the kite with sharp knives 
to cut the other half to feed themselves 
one thousand days of pure darkness 
knowing what to kill and forgetting what 
to eat by the bloody wall of my neighbour 
whom I try to save his soul but he died firstly 
nothing belongs to me anymore in here 
young teenagers walk with the lifetime crowns 
meanwhile, I run after my shadow just to 
survive another day far from the death direction 
I learn a new language to smile longer 
I work with a less pay since I have no dreams  
yet, I see my days are wearing my grieves 
just so I feel my aches in every autumn season ​

Into the water of the blue river 
I see my details without a shadow  
my face has a look of a dry leaf 
with my back straight as the mountain 
happiness is the missing puzzle 
to express how wonderful my life is 
lonely stars hanging with the moon 
like myself lonesome around strangers 
Living in another city, not my own  
with the future somewhere in my coffin  
seeking for attention of the zombies  
to eat my bones, to gladly drink my blood 
Let me go without saying anything  
since nobody understands my misery  
when I travel back to the old days when 
I thought I would be happy and not crying 
I am alone by the whiskey and the  
pack of cigarettes and together creates 
invisible friends, who will enjoy watching  
me reading my last words before I die alone ​

The last rainbow that appeared, 
recognized me from my eyes 
he told me that I survived the war 
and that he saved my life 
he said that back in my homeland  
he can’t be seen when he appears,  
instead he helps the angels to paint by 
Marking the children with my colours 
he painted red on the ones that died  
he painted orange on the hungry ones  
he painted yellow on the ill ones  
he painted green on the orphaned ones 
he painted blue on the heavily wounded ones 
he painted indigo on the ones with last breath 
and lastly, he painted me with violet  
to live between all of my old friends 
 
Who died, and I did not ​

O world, take the cup from me 
I already feel the damages of 
The last sips down my throat 
Exploring the five stages of 
Death 
Denial 
Isolation 
Anger 
Anxiety 
and depression ​

Inside  
museum  
of corpses  
there are  
dead refugees  
bodies who 
died ’cause  
they were  
not characters,  
but priceless,  
experiments 
That helped 
humankind, 
with plastic  
surgery, they 
test dangers  
And feature  
The weapons 
Of flesh 
and blood,  
crash test 
dummies,  
design body  
armour against  
the aliens  
from the  
spaceship  
and women,  
private body  
parts were 
all set  
to put on  
sale, since  
all the  
hairstylists 
and  
cosmetics 
had been  
working  
hard to  
keep their  
belief in  
Death.  
It does not  
have to  
be boring  
inside the  
mind of  
Lively souls ​

Someone who loves 
chilling  
dancing  
drinking 
smoking 
asks me if I write with an ink? 
 
I answer to her with  
yes, it’s from  
my pain 
my ache 
my lonely  
my grief  
with the colour of death philosophy 
 ​

I’m seeking a land, and not a homeland 
Without the aid of Google maps, instead 
I will discover a new land with a loyal pet as 
I gave up from my friends a long time ago 
I want to work like a bee, and fly with 
the birds by the beautiful blue skies 
I create a family of different plants 
with seeds of my own, and rain from God 
being a writer is being a father of grieves, and 
writing about what the city lights hid from me 
the rain drops wash the rooves of leaders 
and damage the shelters of few believers 
with my eyes I see, while nothing stops me from  
crying when I hear my adopted brother’s dying 
I jump into the dead sea to cure my wounds 
as I will have new cuts with no pain as long as 
I will be drinking whiskey, and creating an unhealthy 
cloud from the smoke of my addiction to cigarettes 
being happy doesn’t mean I’m sleeping without 
counting the stars, instead it’s another way to 
forget that I am actually being hanged to death 
since the day, I decided to own a colour of the rainbow 
I will be quite with the mirror, and hold  
The candle dropping more wax in my throat ​

I stepped above my spirit 
to release the joys from the bottom  
of my belly button 
I broke my heart a few times 
To feel a healthy beat to enjoy  
every misery I face on my own 
I cracked my brain to recall 
the times when my father wasn’t a man, 
when he knew about death 
I drank dark roast coffee  
to bitter my words from saying them 
to the clock on the dull wall 
I cried as a powerless musician  
because I knew that my blues and jazz 
have a deep accent of grief 
 ​

A few weeks ago  
I went to the washroom in a 
Coffee shop nearby to my school 
there by the sink 
I saw shaving blades  
I was shocked and terrified in the moment 
I went back to my table 
to study my homework, next to me 
a foreign student was talking on the phone 
he spoke the same language as I do, 
his mouth was smiling, and his eyes were  
watery creating a river of lonesome homesickness 
turns out, the shaving blades 
have a chemistry in his current life 
so do I, but I would use it on some other day of the year 
 ​

​Plagued by shadows,
insomnia’s impediment
of imminent danger
looms as I relinquish
consciousness to dreams.
Jolted with bated breath
from early restfulness,
I am determined
to overcome this dilemma
so that I can ease into…
snoring bliss.

​grabbing Buds
for the 7th inning stretch
dad’s buddies spit
mounds of sunflower seeds
on mom’s waxed floor

​Sirens pierce the crime scene.
Standing helpless to stop
Staring at smoldering
Smoke streaming from his home.
Suspecting arson, squad
Six friends search for a cause.
Silent screams…haunting loss
 
Form--Pleiades

​Printed on metal, the photo surprises with sweeps
of blue and orange swirls, some sunlight glare,
a sensual background for what looks like a sax
lurking at the center. Look closer, see only engine
parts, at the bottom knurled acorn nuts line up
like asparagus stalks to be cut, steamed.
 
 
Imagine this engine's diagram: a maze of numbers,
 arrows, a,b,c's in coded reds and greens,
 a guide the owner squints at to restore
 Sting Rays, Peugeots, fantasy play like kids'
 Erector sets in the forties. Step back, this photo's
                  a Rorschach:
 
Watch pistons resurrect as piano hammers.
Listen to a child touch the keys, hear Chopsticks
Frere' Jacques or see a desert landscape burnt
by the sun or shimmer like a well cut diamond.
Look again: the cobalt sky brightens the Catskills,
but nothing glamorous in this landscape.
 
You move fast on highways in pre-owned
vehicles. Under the hoods valve springs dance
with water pumps, click their heels with tie rods.
One part stops, another starts. Applaud for the air intake.
Fill up the used Honda with gas to drive to Shoprite,
backseats loaded with cheese bites and tuna crumbs,
jammed with kids, muddy scooters, smashed bags.
 
No Peugeot, no Sting Ray no tinkering
with engines, only a haze of numbers
on unpaid bills and dreams of beers
             at Applebee's
 
 
 
 

​Out my car window      clouds float
splatter  drip     Pollock's canvas up close
 
Rain splashes   wipers swish
 souls studded with chips of glass
 
  Faith is hot  she turns me on
    Send love to the other sluts
         Hope and Charity
 
Did his moral compass exist
            inside the root cellar
 but hurricanes toppled the weather vane?
 
Did he twist to hell and back
            circling  the never ending
wars from the East?
 
 Rain splashes   hail
            signals
 a drive-thru   I order the Deluxe
  
 Out my car window
             detritus floats  explodes
  Pollock's canvas up close
 
 
 
 
 

​Time? Memories? Seeds?
I call them – Earth, earth,
and spirits.
 
Yes, and in spring, I
will send a thousand spirits
through the sky,
and I hope one will take root
in Berlin, where
it was hard to believe that
an Earth could grow between us.