Cinammon

Cooking some onions,
while heart beats old blues,
intoxicated, with melancholy,
I prepare for stomach,
some food.

And I know exactly -
inside of me,
And you know: surely -
inside of you...

We will continue.

Empty are the cities,
connected with empty bridges,
empty is the castle,
empty is the house,
you are gonna visit,
along empty street,
on the sundee night.
Empty is the river,
empty is the coast,
everything is empty,
only our hearts,
are full of fears,
love & trust.

People are malicious enough,
to feed us yellow delusions,
mixed with guaranteed truth,
but always incompetent -
to manage their own world.

And so transparent & empty
are the regulations,
in this system,
of emptyness.
Empty is the avenue,
oblong like hours in empty days,
empty are the regulations in work,
empty are the remembrances,
on an empty december Monday,
everything is empty; what;
we can see,
everything is emptying out,
except of the fear & love,
inside of me.

Empty are my expectations,
and I dont think of my empty past,
empty are all my aims,
empty is the meaning,
of my translucent dreaming,
everything is empty,
everything is empty now,
only your heart is full,
full of trust, fears & love.

Wisdom is not in money.
Wisdom is not in years.
When you do not hide,

Wisdom is hidden in your tears.

Is somebody listening to me?

Just the blizzard,
of egocentric souls,
labelled: "Virtue from thee!",
so called: homage-paying domestics,
we meet daily on the streets.

But we dont care.

Immemorial old strong wine,
we drink,
in our garden,
in solemn sunshine,
we feel so cozy,
therefore impatient to "die";
together.

Cooking some onions,
ingredients: salt, sex & chilly idioms,
intoxicated with the scent of your skin,
I feel so horny,
you are my cinnamon,
oh darling,
I prepare for you,
some memorable moments.

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