Melting Colors

  * * *

  I saw it in a future

  Forever lost, forgotten

  The slavery of men -

  And there was no war

  And no politicians

  No businessmen buying

  Songs and education

  Then had even changed

  Minds and hearts of people

  And there were no slaves -

  Paradise they called it

  And there were no differences

  No more exploitation

  Of one to another

  Of one to the many

  Of many to one -

  I don't know the time -

  I saw it in a future

  Forever lost, forgotten

  The slavery of men...

  Unemployed Week

  On Monday morning

  I laugh at the world

  On Monday evening

  I laugh at myself

  On Tuesday

  I just do the reverse

  On Wednesday

  I ponder on the sense of it all

  On Thursday

  I cry...

  But on Friday

  I take pleasure

  in all the little things

  On Saturday

  I rest

  and drink from the water of life

  Then finally, on Sunday

  ...I work!

  Modern Poetry

  Is this then what

  they call modern

  poetry - broken

  lines continuing

  thoughts left (somewhere)

  hanging the future

  balances of yet unseen

  stanzas that start

  tying disconnections -

  untying connections

  found perhaps in

  moody (obscure)

  scenes

  details one is

  supposed to know

  these rather famous

  people - Muji and

  Halili

  drinking milk! -

  watching the latest

  superhero movie

  growing each second

  stronger and stronger

  themselves - "Zana

  makes you strong"

  you know it -

  it is not even

  arbitrary

  time at 13:37

  GMT+1

  or the road

  "Kreshnik 1"

  unlabeled dust

  flying and playing

  timeless..

  as stories I guess

  native in content

  foreign in meaning

  vice-versa in depth

  surfacing again

  bubbles of styles

  in meter with time

  playing with rhyme

  that one can design

  and later combine

  with deeper thoughts

  of eastern winds:

  "Who can ever find

  The center of east and west

  Ain't it everywhere?"

  like here

  ...

  yes there

  ...

  no maybe

  there is no such

  place of

  doors opened

  with keys of wind

  is there

  enough of this

  past, present

  future

  "modernity"

  I guess

  the old is "ancient"

  what once was

  "modern"

  that so will be

  in future times

  when one may look

  the same and different

  and change

  all of it - or nothing

  and call it "modern"

  But I believe

  that one can write

  not bound by time

  not bound by space

  or anything

  Yet there are bounds

  of those that read

  in time and space

  and everything

  till they find keys

  Of timeless dust

  Of timeless wind

  For doors and places

  That one has built

  He hopes with care

  But then who knows

  If there are treasures

  Or empty spaces

  Of fragrance feelings

  Or dancing thoughts

  But I build keys

  Of wind, of dust

  Of paper, ink

  Of electrons

  Till they can open

  A door, a place

  A mind, a heart

  And feel the fragrance

  Of thoughtful feelings

  Of timeless things

  And call them "modern"

  Or call them "ancient"

  I do not care -

  About material

  Or about form

  Or ornament

  And period style -

  As they are keys

  I'll call them keys

  And only keys

  And look for doors

  For places, minds

  For hearts and fragrances -

  And match the feelings

  Of timeless things -

  Flower demining

  once again through orders traveling in panic

  I gave my hand to a word lost in the crowd

  she saw my like a child in the midst of war

  and we walked in a field full of false mines

  we stopped on a hill under a blooming tree

  and blew the flowers away as dandelions towards the field

  we saw fireworks targeting the stars

  falling back on the ground like seeds that do not grow