who’s nerve is naked,
who is wrapping up souls with linguistic silks,
who is breathing with sulfur and incense,
who is faithful and fake,
who is hurting by any means,
who’s curing up souls with stinging word,
who is listening to the Lord,
hello, my comrade!
I am one of thousand.
Or perhaps one of a million,
my voice can never be paused,
its’ the way I am feeling:
When my voice breaks up —
keeping life in my words.
Word is God.
I keep the intensity of Polar trap.
The word is world.
All the poets are brothers.
This is the only sense in life —
there is no others:
the pressure of intensity makes the only drive;
burns people down, tempting
If it disappeared — life goes empty.
It’s like a beautiful face without expression.
Somebody’s loving beautiful stones,
calling them ‘precious’.
Somebody’s hurting stones with word,
reaching to very bones,
trying to put in a soul.
He loses words when sees his goal:
having my soul you became a star…
…And Galatea’s life starts.
You know, when I am telling these things —
I can see in faces the fire reflecting.
We are not really different, we all have the links —
every person for a poet is family relating.
Although there’s something,
something else you want…
As if you are a crossroad of entire world,
As if you have been given a prevention note
for darkness and narrowness of the entire world,
for somebody feeling at this moment lost,
for somebody feeling cold and tired.
As if you were a fire keeping off the frost,
as if people are dark without a fire…
I am holding with words the intensity of world,
I am opening souls which were scared of draft.
Somewhere flashes light in darkness and cold
and pours to somebody with laughter.
lonely and desperate,
without comfort and sleep,
sometimes sprawling with helplessness —
They can be really deep.
I open my window.
I accept every blow.
I am looking for other lights —
everyone needs light.
So do I.