Speak to me in a foreign language,
have mysterious formulas
instead of a greeting,
I will recognize you again.
By the silence
I sense your soul.
My verses do not have meaning,
if you do not immerse them at night on a New moon
in lake water after a storm,
while fragile dreams creak.
Write mercy to the dust.
Play the last dance,
the hell of the piano
and the cello that persistently proves
that a-moll hurts, but d-moll has
its own stories of remorse,
I will recognize you again,
I remember your music
in the eyes.
There is no sound between us except a sigh.
Sometimes there are nights without you
and all the loneliness like the world of Atlas,
lies on your shoulders.
This one – ours, call it love or mistake,
has its traces in the Hell,
no matter how much the Heaven is its destination.
Clean the old books of dust,
will smell of us in the spring.
There is no space between us
except at the wrong time.
In how many dimensions do you fall asleep,
if you wake up next to me?