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No matter how much you make yourself believe,
That you have a baby,
That your drawing for somebody is more than someone else's life,
That your visions on the other side of the earth
Are a reality for somebody,
That you are at least furthermore than what you create,
That sometimes eyes closed you hear a baby crying,
Who had been deprived of a chance by you to be born,
Because you grew up And now lock yourself up like a monk,
In your own city,
In your own home,
In your own book,
In tour own self.
You seek happiness and find tranquillity,
you long for meat and you drink milk,
you want honey and drink sugarless coffee,
You want to have a wife
And you draw the face of a weeping woman.
Who wants sex,
But faints at the sight of blood,
she cuts nails on her fingers,
Trembles and wears a diaper for the first time.
During an excess of endorphins, When the heart tries to calm down
And the hands are still trembling
She pours the wild berry tea for herself
And waters the flower in the pot.
She picks up the phone and calls him,
In whose memory she was created,
That is you who read these words,
You, who imagined every word - in action,
You who made a short film in yourself
And you, who have the illusion
about the thing Which is not written in this poem ...
When your life scattered like sand in the air,
Or when there is rain instead of romance,
It hardens and toughens your being like wet cement,
And then it gets cold and you have no firewood,
To warm your hands,
A hat and long hair cover your ears,
Come and I will kiss you on the frozen nose.
An hour passes, followed by a day, a week, a second, and a third ...
And I see
Whatever I write
And no matter what you draw,
And no matter what she sings
And he ...
If you feel that you are not a soul to somebody,
Then you realize it was worth dreamier husband,
which immortalized you on the canvas
And so your past life had little meaning!
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