My engine hollers
On Nurburgring twelve laps
a monster maulers.
I shall defeat you
My maneuvers on wet track
and gambol are true
It doesn't matter how one attends,
or how after it he goes fervent,
always, always will approach the end,
a second life won't flow in current.
......White roses were fading,
beauteous blooms' life ended,
their last scent you expected,
petals your lips were braiding.
....Unspoken I walked in rain;
I suppose ardent flowers loved,
my course that winded curved,
along a song's whistled refrain.
A little swallow followed the sun,
He fled South above the Ocean,
not knowing if there was a land,
the trip to South was just a notion.
He loved the endless sea-water,
dark light of his destination lay,
outside this world to sky border,
where his solitude defied dismay.
Somehow those whose world is Hades
care for long gone years in times
to end, while thoughts trail to shades
but then found homes once lived primes
and there shined loved rooms call them
best kept heart's gifts looked from gods
pays of light shown wraiths' emblem
In there moved their friends of odds
Your Vision Nigh
Fiddling swallows never cease to fly
Eagles indomitably seize the sky
winds embroider our sins to pray;
Nymphical deities subdue in brines,
foggy knot distances, my form enshrine,
Nautilus scopes there parallel lay;
Flying next to Eagles, your vision nigh,
in ample Oceans Nymphs dove to die
lonely encomium the winds will play.
Stygian waters can wait
before early becomes too late.
Love in our souls can cure
whatever is sorrowful and pure.
And if you reach out a hand
I 'll be told by a heaven's band.
Music plays inside my soul
counts my past and present role;
live it, says, it's not despair,
welcome to my present fair;
listen cause that isn't despair,
welcome to my present fair.
The young cloud is on the field;
running along roiling winds;
a slow drizzle falls to wield,
my thyme, sages and mints;
The young field calls his loves;
counting dawn's wild flow'rs,
north wind, trails two doves;
that fly to reach away stars;
My old friends came to the bog;
like drops of this rain's dew;
and they found Autumnal fog;
that spread for me and just a few.
Spirits will dance around me
in a macabre recalling game;
there you will hear my name,
for acheronian ghosts want me.
I shall hear - long shout in fog;
as the wind for me will holler,
aim your consent to be a caller,
a pseudo esthesis in rained bog.
Then will come a mindful wraith;
darkish wings will hum an' gravel,
fates will pulsate with an angel,
stygian feast in mind and faith.