11 243 Meters, Purple Mediterranean
The airplane wings draw new summer fragrances
in the fogs they’re expected by tomorrow’s smiles
like a dawn or maybe a dusk
with a calm, lazy eyes the day
can witness the providence through all the blue truths
the winds lose their hearing with the speed of a fatal thought
squeezed into a cloud that looks like Helderlin
the three colors beyond the window are tightened in a harmony by the belt of a thought looking for waiting rooms
with queues for the scents of summers to happen
every doubt burns in the contact with the perfect sea right in front of us
no mantra reveals the same silence again
the airplane wings confine
new pieces of rigour in the collages of death,
Deceived like a flat rainbow at the end of the view.
The land, once again, with open arms and a deep breath
is set to earn a temporary embrace
counting the seagulls following the shade-loaded boats.
Going after the White Griffin
In a body of demigod beast imperial shadows of chthonic forces douse
kingdoms united into the singularity of all beings
become golden ruins under steel-feathered wings
in an incense smoke sighs are clothed
through which gods send answers
when you pass through tunnels of glass hope
virgin blood supplies your cells.
A griffin pierces far into the heavens
in search for
a magnificent day for a perfect melancholy.
that the blank in each whiteness
holds the most colorful rainbow sewed up in a full stop
the well in which the souls drown
suggests an illusion of all destinies
buried into a tunnel with one exit
where the celestial blueness reflects off the lonely trains’ glass.
Asian winds blow statues of flesh
before showing you the way to the only truth – downward
all the definitions of joy and wisdom are carrying explosive
waiting for its moment
in front of faces yet to blush.
The rain is rage of myriad of mirrors and swords
they guard the innocence of the land pieces between us
and the magic of the air with taste of white birds
black hounds chase the moon at dusk
and, hiding behind the mountains,
bark with a lion’s roar
then the night sculpts new tunnels of hope from itself
hope undefiled as an intact wine bottle
pointing the way.
Our ashes are dust on the bodies of the
a shadow that builds
all the world’s heavens,
a flag waiting to be lifted
by the wind in between
that only sometimes moans out loud.
Our ashes hide the sunwords
in an Easter basket braided with red thoughts,
our ashes precede the
gray shine of foreign universes
once purified by moments of water
and grains of fire
are being crumbled in chrome plates
from the dining rooms of the homes of
children who are not yet born,
light as the earth protecting us.