LIKE A DANDY OF LONDON DRESSED AS A SOLDIER OF LOVE IN SPRING

The tired body goes numb. The still air is ominous. The soul wanders around the house without doing anything. It's an ephemeral thing

"It's not over yet. Breathe." "I'm breathing." "Breathe, so that particles of ash or dust don't scorch the sprouting shoots on the alveoli of the suffering soul. So that the bitter ash doesn't settle on the heart like a sinister black soot. Breathe! And carry within you the light that was bequeathed to you, remembering no evil."

"It's not over yet. Breathe." "I'm breathing." "Breathe, so that particles of ash or dust don't scorch the sprouting shoots on the alveoli of the suffering soul. So that the bitter ash doesn't settle on the heart like a sinister black soot. Breathe! And carry within you the light that was bequeathed to you, remembering no evil."

In the infinite cosmos, from a thousand sounds, barely fledged, you seek divine music, you search for the right words. You, the poor thing, can't stop, you chase after them like a maniac, but not a note comes, not a line comes together

In the infinite cosmos, from a thousand sounds, barely fledged, you seek divine music, you search for the right words. You, the poor thing, can't stop, you chase after them like a maniac, but not a note comes, not a line comes together

To the rain, pouring out fine pollen, to kiss it, to look at the stubble and the road. To search for a causal connection between them, to lean my back against a withered birch tree, believing neither in goodness nor in God

Slow time of suffering, Swift eternity of happiness, Who will separate you while we live? Where is your source for each day, Where are your threads woven?

You're just walking along and suddenly, in the familiar din of the street, you discern a quiet sound, and it becomes poetry: the slow pace of the morning, crusty Khrushchev-era buildings, a lilac bush, wet snow, a person at the bus stop

You're just walking along and suddenly, in the familiar din of the street, you discern a quiet sound, and it becomes poetry: the slow pace of the morning, crusty Khrushchev-era buildings, a lilac bush, wet snow, a person at the bus stop

Königsberg doesn't reveal itself immediately. It leads deeper—through narrow streets where lanterns flicker as if alive, and further, to where the fog becomes thicker than thoughts.

Königsberg doesn't reveal itself immediately. It leads deeper—through narrow streets where lanterns flicker as if alive, and further, to where the fog becomes thicker than thoughts.