Romantics

In his eyes – rivers,
honey-colored streams
of hidden knowledge;
no axioms, two fronts and
the beautiful insanity
that blossoms on his rugged skin.
In his eyes – watered flowers,
for nymphs, for satyrs’ bliss.
No sonnets or rhymes,
just the beautiful vitality
of movement and the soft
touch of his hands.

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Lose Your Smile

Inside looking out
while the train is checking-in
after six hours of shivery shakes.

Time to take the wheels,
feel the thump through loud earphones
and go.

Down the stairs
into the halls of transportation,
I’m moving with a smile

I won’t lose it under clear canvas skies,
when tomorrows smile back
between gothic bricks of independence,

there’s a charm undiscovered.
It will remain closed,
but to try to open it
will always bring true bliss

Simple Song

Will someone take the ugly?
Take the ugly, take the ugly,
and bury it, don’t tell –
bury it, don’t tell.
Maybe then, I guess.
Maybe then, I guess –
All Apples golden will be,
All Apples golden will be.

Would someone take the doubt?
Take the doubt, take the doubt,
drown it deep in the sand,
down the bottom of the grains.
Maybe then, I guess –
Maybe then, I guess.
All Roses Red will be,
All Roses Red will be.

Will someone take the false?
Take the false, take the false,
throw it – to a distance unknown –
where all are done alone.
Maybe then, I guess.
Maybe then, I guess –
All will flower inside of me,
All will flower inside of me.

From Budapest To Prague

[past present]
Anticipation brushes sunflower landscapes
with variations of poisonous sweetness,
and the sand of thought trenscends –
a Stills Song commences.
“So begins the task,” he sings,
and the white dress addresses
a deeper sense with pen and paper,
with the flow of a slow train
and European essence.
I don’t need to wait for the sun,
it has settled in past days of family
and it moves me through scenery
of metal, concrete and green.
Endless thoughts on the page,
and a plan to race the graceful;
time has no place in such space,
and the playlist remains.

[Ramat Gan present]
Now the song is played again in bus stops,
where people check their watches
between chimney-smelling streets,
and I must learn to live without it now
“I must learn to give only part, somehow.”

Sacrosanct Sorata

Reminiscence of fish profusion,
of a stolen potato in the hand of the temple chief.
If not for ghosts chanting the ills of heavens,
there would be more space for love than just hearts.
He lost his right hand to the beauty he chose,
but never resisted, never once questioned,
thunders still remember there was one spirit –
like a waterfall – enduring, sacred, untamed.

The Bridge

On a boat she stood,
and it rowed with Samurai strength
white makeup brushed by dissapointed tears,
lamented anticipation made transparent.
She watched as he fought on the shore thinking –
what has he got
if not the swift sword in countless battles
and the kindest touch in only one.

She once stood on a bridge
hid beneath a paper umbrella
and he saved her by noticing
the troubled eyes on the canal.
They sold eels, then she sold herself,
then the beating of two naked lungs,
Then the sore punch of rain that’ll
always find its ending.

Unknown Melody

His eyes sang a melody of an unfettered bird,
They have flattered her figure no matter what light,
no matter what smile has embraced the lines on her face
– and on that day – besotted, he gazed- a sight through
exhilirated tears – and all senses joined the lingering seconds.

Thick branches of orange juice and the smell of pure summer,
of hands picking sweetness from trees of twilight,
and no colour can ever depict the happiness inside the nostrils.
The isle seemed fresh, and seeds of affection were replanted
so other weeds can grow, and other odours may fill his lungs
with the extinct feeling of adoration – of love transpired.