The Source

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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.

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