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

The
Night was young
When I was awake...

But not anymore…

After the rain

A sheep grabbed the grass
from the clouds

Tattoo

My body tattooed
In your eyes
A shadow
Beneath your breath
My tongue
You swallowed
I slept, with your hand
On my soul
+
I kissed you
In an apartment
Infested with moths
My hands
Found
Their shape
On your back
I lost my way
In your depth
I tattooed
My body
In your void
+
My face
In your retina
Under my skin
Your smell
+
A long pause
+
My Time
Tattoo of a clock
On your neck