butterflies' war

I am being chased by butterflies. The nights are infested with moths, dragonflies and beautiful butterflies. The sleep was like a finely composed photograph. I always love to take photos with some greenery in them. In this frame, there is a branch of a small tree with yellow green leaves, flowers and butterflies and I love them usually. But in here they look absolutely mean, looking straight at my eyes with some sort of a judgment. What are they needed from me? The colors I took them for my poems? The fluttering movements copied or their soul I kept in that crystal pendent, when I was so little? I don’t really know and they are not explaining. They are just there - flying endlessly and aimlessly inside the walls of my sleep, from one branch to another, from one frame to another.

Photocopy

Last night
My son told me, I am your photocopy

Stunned, it was a revelation
A thought, memory

Am I a copy of my father?
His pains, loneliness
Abstract philosophies

He must be a copy too, of
An ancient past
A forlorn town
Words of an old type writer

In time
I merge into him
Giving
My soul

An old pen
A Camera
Some words
A blood type

To my son

Last night
My son told me, I am your photocopy