Poems

***

After reading this poem you will not have me read,
I would be sorry

We will meet
one day and from the heart of an abandoned

We will be passionate to love

we will meet at home in the countryside of childhood
where God's mind drove us we will not honor
only with eternal humility we will deliver the wounds
willingness and grace money debts plans

- and we won't regret it anymore -

He only suffers from a sickle
that mows naked grass
In the garden of blue cornflowers
where he drove his cow

***

The moon is shaking, velvet
smoothes chimeras
I swept the words for a moment
words blown in the evenings

It shakes quietly, quietly for a moment
whispers a notebook
The butterfly rises in the gloom of the village
who does not sleep, learns…

Black World's tears beauties

Zas jen ticho je tu
ba i hroby už tu byly
Další cudnou větu
básníci utopili

Jdi se zřeknout pro hřích k světu
mlčel-li o něm někdy jeden z nás
Zda jsme pod lavinou vonných květů
nechali volně plynout všechen čas

Život je krásný smuten sám
tak jak tvé střípky na víčku
Komus nabíd srdce a kam jen klam
když už tak lpíš na slovíčku
Proto ti to povídám

Teď sám se vší plesnivinou hnětu
byť sálá plameny Tvůj rudý jas
Hroudy krve co mám z bajonetu
a ty tu budou budou brzy zas

Z Černosvětu

slzy

krás

***

Crying again,
poet?
A flock of ducks
from the monument

And you're excited for a few rolls
and no matter who it was
gently crushed on the grave
as a memory?

AT THE TURN OF THE MILLENNIUM

Tell me about nature for a moment
Now that the wings of neon breasts have withered
Sow in satisfaction

Tell me Where are the albatrosses,
- after all, the hot arteries of the blood of eternity
have no blood without dreams

And who are you just begging for the plight of tenderness?
A motionless look as the trees approach the stars
Who are you suing when the others are running away
And the wreath is given to the dead except for the grave

At the turn of the millennium
Flowing streams of children's blood
Which were not enough to find themselves
In the flow of progress

After a relentless time
Constructed
Beauty

I'm starting to believe my own poetry again