the heavy leaves stirring

at midnight;

a black figure rushing through the forest,

his head turned

to see a black wolf.


the sweat coming down the face

as the howling wind tore at his face.

a feeling. he knew.

she was coming to get him.

still running madly he turned and…


…boom! into the tree.

he fell into the mud, the dirt

seeping into his body. there was

nothing he could do.

she was coming down at him!


the strong and rough hands pulled

him up in the sky

and onto her shoulder.

the helpless feeling again

rushed through his mind.


countless minutes passed

through the Oblivion,

where skulls and corpses were staring

he could see her white gown

and her muddy feet.


the atmosphere was something he

could not bear

(hey! but what could he do?!)

until the heart

squeezed by the fear


began to breathe again.

they passed through the pool

from the misty shadowlands

into the care-free, sky-blue,

flowered, honeyed, beed countrylands.


he let out a sigh to see no wolf

(or in disguise)

but blue-rounded eyes

(and mouths) to point happiness.


where was he?

probably dazed by the sweet smells

of hers he forgot to ask for the map!

"because she’s killing me!" he thought.



they journeyed here to

see the fruits of cupid’s arrow


beware! too late!

he was shot dead through the



by the cupid’s arrow!



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It’s hard to tell the saddest story

in a grey-wrapped sordid reality.

The steam of the beholder

and the everlasting day

at the end of the street

where you

and a thousand wasted words


When we walked

but did not

(for we stand at the end of the street)

the waxing moon smiled

we turned

and were shocked to see

it was dark

(that means the day was over)

but still the same

just two silent shadows on the ground


Standing just there

at the end of the world

the earth collapsed

into oblivion

a black hole in front of us

red-glowing eyes beckoning

it’s tempting

but the easiest way

the words seem not to come

a habit

we’re lost, surely

the devil is rising from the dead

(as well as the myth itself)

i’m paralyzed

I don’t believe my eyes

I’m much obliged to you

who set up this meeting

with the master of fire

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Globoko v dežju


Nikoli ne bom razumela

tega moškega

(ki v črnem plašču stoji na dežju),

na obrazu razpotegnjen nasmeh,

se ne obrne, le strmi v nebo,

nič ne reče,

pridi bliže, bom zašepetala,

da ne razumem,


a brez skrbi prosi za še,

potreba po uveljavitvi ga drži trdno

vkovanega v mehek beton,

ki mu teče za škornje in pleza navzgor,

a on še vedno strmi v neznano,

kjer raziskujejo se znana ozvezdja,

vedno bolj je oddaljen od njih,

v upanju jih radostno prosi,

da iz kapljic spletejo lestev

in bi splezal na vrh,

se ne obrnil in spoznal,

da sploh ni potrebe po rešitvi.


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