the horse likes to bring us high
on the red hills
where the nightingales are drinking
right from the sky
and our bath has wine-like smells

right to the place
where our childhood loses its secrets,
its whispers are washing the mad girl
and we cry and we dance with her
around the remnants of a tiny world

look at the dying people – their hands
bear seagull-feathers as flowing wind
cannot be brought apart from our garden

when I see you the sky falls into my heart
where the words disappear
slightly ashamed of the coloured skin

and you play with me
as we're two blind birds,
while the garden knows no rest
and flourishes every Christmas.

on the seaside
you pick the sand on your feet and laugh,
and we climb the waves
going down with the sunrays.

a child comes to us
and brings our hands together

***

we are lost outside for a spring
unlocked by a green wing as the dream
burns along our way

and you save the poems from my pockets
with the ease of rain
left on the stranger's hat

the poor one is falling on the street
filled by the graceful cry of forefathers,
pouring light on my shoulders
and further on your hands

and I understand it all without words

love escapes from the battlefield
where the wounded are proud of their blood
and they pronounce the judgement
on the stealer of tears


***