in a lake of earth’s reverie
the soul is a flowering island..
with a willow moon as satellite
and aerial stars of mist as wind

not quite the entity of ether,
not quite a landing mapped clear-
simply a drift along tenderness,
the ineffable dance of being

(art by Veneta Docheva)


moving and still
candles dawn a pure vision
between soft incense sounds
and even softer ones

each page of a scripture
is a fragrant glow of silence
echoing the warm smile
of the farthest star


within a morning veil
of one more fervent snowfall
the earth is beaming pathless,
wild and deep in purity of sky.
fog streams the echo of pale sun,
streets robed in graceful wholeness.
each dormant meadow an elven miracle,
each silver of a cloud floating life

brook diary (10.02)

in the stir of night
a blush of constellations
..orion’s flight

etched with silver, the swan’s reverie heaves every freezing shore. only the echo of an early blizzard passing by, moon lindens sleeping gracefully near the mountain house of vesper tealight..amid its subtle and burning hues a shade of hazel bells and notes, the cloud’s revelation of joy and sorrows.

what is time but an invention of captive mind? soft birds of mist air are wild in the fields, not wondering about how amaranths hold a vernal prayer to gleam, their fervent flame threading through soulscape to sprout a tiny garden close to the porch of spring-

move the water with barely a ripple, sky pool of elven stars whispers a wind for hours in the drift. layered earth behind the south hedge is humming the sea, breathing deep and quiet in her freedom, never straining to resonate with maps that miss winged spheres of the invisible..

what creates stillness is inside, once it grows from the soil of experience the noise cannot reach it. be it a sudden eclipse or an ache to endure, beyond the outlines of things being is a blossoming witness. perceiving a heaviness of what it sees yet tenderly weightless within.

such is the way i feel you.
in the fragrance of infinite hope
not to be defined by limits
of this world

in the soul of a snowdrop
musing a meadow moon to peace

in the melody of all dreams


at times the shadow
is a scarlet violin.
never the wilt
of soul that’s rooted
in devotion to the stars
but slow melodies
of sky becoming-

each one
an ardent eulogy
to gift of silence

(art by Dirk Wüstenhagen)


дыхание не ищет смысл.
оно просто есть
там, где прибой рисует
перламутр волн и аромат рассвета.
среди нечёткости прибрежных линий,
снежности акаций, в отзвуках свечей
душа прозрачнее слезы
и тихий шторм приводит к небу