I still remember that first sunrise That you shot at me like a deadly glance. Oh, you are vanilla sweet and wise, I listen to your history and dance. Now you wait for me With your premature spring; I look up and see - Green is a good thing Because you smell of color green: Of some forbidden grass and wet leaves, Steamy passions and spleen Of thunderstorms that the sky heaves. Mister Twain was more than right, You are a southern belle or beau Wrapped in blossoms, a fine sight. Wonder why my answer is a "no".
Going to Berlin Wearing hopes in my hair Chills on my skin A promising affair I know there is a man out there With a white hat on dark waves Guitar music for a low fare And sometimes he misbehaves We'd sit by the Spree Because our dreams are warm rivers Too cold for Wannsee Please... don't send the shivers He'd write a new melody Heard in my eyes Score written on my body That readily flies I'd make up some awkward lines On a sheet of blue sky A transparent poem that combines My sigh and a nice try There is a place for museums in this city High-brow culture at the zenith of fame Our twosome is art, too, mad and guilty It's a moving sculpture of a flame
*cultural references intended
What if you land on my shoulder
Like a wind-blown petal
On white linen or a towel,
Leaving your shadow on my skin
For a couple of seconds
While the pollen would stay forever?
What if you land on my lips
Like a cold raindrop
On a humid summer day,
Long enough to give me the taste
Of clouds and heavenly spheres,
Not enough to still my thirst?
What if you land on my mind
Like a little bird
That chirps about wondrous forests,
Miraculous trees of life and death
And nests for secret lovers;
The winged one would fly away,
Its songs – a lasting sound of thoughts,
Though never reason enough
For the bird to turn around.
Do broken flower stems Strangle the blossoms beneath? Do hidden or lost gems Have sharp and wounding teeth? Do bleeding animals Attack the weaker lot? Do falling petals Make the grass rot? But when we have fallen on the ground And chunks of our souls cannot be found, Why do we pluck the feathers Of the birds inside of others? A loving heart is not a phoenix, Its clock of forgiveness ticks.
Silence before storms, they say, And silence afterwards, I feel. I wish the tornado would stay, At least the madness is real. Grey dullness stops the growth of branches, Buds of inspiration remain tight; I need extremes and avalanches, A blazing day, a freezing night. Leaves of juicy, splashy pulp, Shaken off and carried away, Fierce, raw emotions engulf My creative sprouts and play... The bruises may be sour, Licking them could burn my tongue Even at the very hour Of creatively playing along.
When I look through their eyes, I see more than my usual tale, Uncover hidden fantasies and lies. Trying to fight back - I fail. Eat fear of truth like daily bread, Bury myself in a romantic world Where daydreams and fancy are fed With a fork and sometimes - a sword. Imagination is both shelter and pain, A dangerous escape to a foreign land That I desperately long for in vain: The irrational cannot be foreseen or planned. Getting lost is a part of the game; The only way out is their sober eyes. Take a glance - I'm not the same, This time, a worldly rule applies.
Give me the purification Of the marine air and whiteness of yachts, My love of the sea is glorification, Holier than ecstatic vows and oaths. I create idols of seashells and sand; Each prayer is a roar of waves That stroke the humid piece of land, Eating cliffs, scooping caves. Salty breeze clears the mind, Pushes through, permeates the limbs. If that hurts, I don't mind, The pain will leave with the winds. And the rest is just a wreath Of seaweed, soft and clingy, Adorning my breasts and beneath. Memories alone are stingy.
Blooming lilac! Out of breath... Why so soon, you fool! Storms will bring you death, The wind is too cool. Five-petal lucky charms Won't make you immortal; Blossoms in your arms - The weakness of a mortal. - We better die in reckless bloom, In seductive sunbeams and flirting breeze, Only to meet our bittersweet doom. The perfume will never wither or freeze.
Hastily, nervously, hurriedly, I found my way through nail polish. Eye shadow and perfume, accordingly. A house inside of me to demolish. Those bricks will fall on the ground For me to tread them down on my way; I'll listen to every frightening sound, But I will depart, arrive, and stay. The scent of night mingled with edt, Internal ruins were set in gothic dark, Yet we will kiss and drink tea, You'll smile and make a foolish remark.