I walk the valley of green and silent dreams
where a black moon renders every shadow brown.
My twenty-nine years are just a giddy game.
I go on – shivering, wounded by light,
and I invent anew my own small world;
free will and desire: to live, like seagulls,
rather it is passion which follows me down.
Harsh winter pervades even the autumn in me,
my path – a faded crow now – thrones my head,
while my heart worships its muse once again;
the Body and Soul Universe of Poetry.
I’m young, my life has been but fancy,
and I wait for night-darkness, somewhere among oaks
mutely, like large dreams witnessing the moon.