The Source

— — — — — — — — — — Children’s hands stained with fruit color in spring water, right next to the old mill where the yellow sand is sprinkled into rocks. Moss and blueberries on lumps of discarded illusions, they grow up in the oak forest. A wolf’s face with a mouth full of acorns hungrily looks at the city with hot eyes, and into the river light between stone monoliths. * Like fugitives from the past In the new year beginning, at the window above the narrow passage we have begun new countings. Nights in the Old Town with a quiet fire to welcome life they reveal all the secrets flowing in torrents to the water waiting down there at the end of a paved alley and turns west towards the dormant canals. * The river carries stones within its bed been paid in gold millet. Absorbs Eastern prayers, they sprinkle the roofs asleep and falls on the water drunk with the holy words of the hearts lost in languages and names. We are looking for an old book nest created by mysterious visitors from the south that let forgetfulness walk and guards the shadows in deep sleep under our hearthstone. * At night, you caress me on your lap, and deep joy is awakened, you bring peace by praying for us. Ice cubes flow down the chest melts on the thighs, but the flow of kisses is down the back unpredictable to the very end. I hug you tired in my nest while the smell of your hair on my face whispers that it is unimportant Are the city streets covered with a gold or with stone gray. — -# — -