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Love
         is not a gesture, nor desire, nor a whisper,
love
         is the admission of all helplessness and power,
         not to dreams, nor laws, nor the divine,
         but to sighs.
Under the left breast is the dust of heavens,
         the confessional quiver of veins.
 
Love 
         is never sorry to have knelt,
         when modesty tears off its belt
         and voices flood the body.
Love
         is not the heart but blood 
         in waves – flooding corners in the dark,
         the head missing from the neck.
 
         Constancy of heights and wings,
         infinite spaces under ribs.
         It teases, guesses, heals,
         branding the shoulder with a seal.
Love
         is when flesh, peace made with soul,
         tries to tear itself apart from the whole
         for the chance lips’ tremble,
         for the fanning eyelashes’ rustle
         for the defeats’ pain and joy  
         in the depth of the eyes.
 Love
         When having swallowed the raw sky
          you set yourself up in the clouds on high,
          to circumvent your tracks
          sacrificing ages to moments.
 
          I will gather a mosaic
          with the taste of woman and sea.
          I will bide my time and build
          four letters – with one sigh filled:
          love.

Under the layer of make-up of the slender skin
to breathe in the fragrance at a cost,
desire can get lost
when no one takes joy in it.

A smile, salted with a tear,
makes others’ hearts happy,
an overgrown mistake in the chest tears
away at its roots interminably.

Hand over the scissors and the needle
to cut  – excise –  and wheedle
all that is, all that was,
for all that was a lesson.
 
52
DUST

The dead ringing of distant steps
    Dust
The first breath in, the last groan out
    Dust
Cruel laughter at time
Dust
Sin holding sway over the world
    Dust
Unbuilt granite of walls
    Dust
That light attracts
    Dust
Now the lament of yesterday’s heights
    Dust
The convicted and the executioner
    Dust
The rainbow crown of its beginning
The end of which was never dreamed
    Dust

Nothing over nothing
    Dust
That is called fate
    Dust


A PEBBLE’S STORY

Stars shoot, entice and fly, stars don’t know why...
In a puddle on the ground the unneeded one is found.

No talents shine: it’s uncouth,
unremarkable, grey and smooth.
It struggles at the bottom in vain
while by day it’s kicked in the spine.
Hope and waiting
for a meeting will linger...

It knows the hour will come
when the heavens us too will remember.
The ringing of heels will fall silent,
the horizon will darken
and far from the bustle of eyes
the light of its star will rise!

Magic with its transparent light
will be mirrored in this puddle’s site
and dreaming up dreams in a swoon
it will reach to the Moon...

... stars shoot, entice and fly,
stars don’t know why...