For all those in leaden winter coats
even in Spring-time
For the signposts of near madness
For unadopted children of fluttering moments
misplaced inside the wind’s locks
wiping out this puppet theatre
Chopin is a perfect drape
of rise
and fall
A conciliatory epilogue for a sore day
for those who lean on dubious quavering hopes
frail walking sticks and frail anchors
for weighted ships which stagger, plough and capsize
among deep waters
For semi-toned steps deliberated for long hours
pulled through the needle’s eye of a burdensome decision
Poetry is something little more
than carved letters
or dismantled limbs of meaning
A comfort like, „Hear my triplets“,
nightingale in the dough of unbaked dawn
Hope is always something just that little less
than premediated directions of the flux and flow
and its deviations
For all those who counted on that lingering smile
it happened before they were aware
before the captured patterns of joy
became too tight
on an island from which you return
different
Who are you now?
A sacred invocation weaves a new pattern
transfiguring the arrangement of water crystals
up until it is condensed
into a wine sip
of a story, a cadenza,
of original
freedom