NUMBER ONE
Life is just an exhibition
Life is just an exhibition,
A rehearsal for what’s real.
Flipping through the possibilities,
Time erases how you feel –
Little by little, it steals.
Maps without places, nameless roads,
Fields, detours, and mazes unfold.
You dress up to be seen,
Among the crowd, so unseen.
In the funhouse of vanity’s glass,
You see yourself, but it won’t last.
The distortion hits, it’s hard to bear,
You finally feel, but you’re unaware –
Strange in a foreign air.
What remains on the board of your life?
Illusions or dreams?
Disguises and lies, foolish strife?
Shouts from the void, it seems.
The glance from the table beside,
Promises nothing, nowhere to hide.
You slip through the hours and days,
Your life crashes down in a meaningless haze.
What’s left when the time runs out?
All those choices turn to doubt.
The mirror cracks, the image fades,
Trapped in the game the world has made.
Strange in the foreign air,
Lost in the mirror’s glare,
Fading away in despair,
You’ll find yourself, but you’re not there.
Wings of Memory
Sometimes the days open up like fruit,
the words fall silent, lost in pursuit,
a bitter taste remains, so deep,
ashes, hidden where shadows sleep,
in the corners of the fence, so cold,
where time stands still, yet grows so bold.
A blue stripe, infinitely wide,
passes over the wall of summer’s tide,
shrouds the riddles of my life in rain,
leaving echoes of forgotten pain.
But through the mist, the sky still gleams,
as though to wake me from my dreams.
From the darkness of the tunnel of leaves,
I write the light, the hope it weaves,
smooth grasses wave beneath the sun,
as if the battles fought are done.
In a single flight that soars, so free,
the winged words of swallows call to me.
They glide, they dive, through winds that play,
reminding me of brighter days.
And though the night may fall once more,
I hope the light within shall still restore.
Between Two Meetings
She was sitting at my table,
yet farther than the sky,
like on those quiet afternoons
when she’d pass me by.
A shadow wrapped around her,
as if the light had found
a different tongue to whisper in,
without a single sound.
Everything around us
had to lose its voice,
before that fragile moment
could finally make its choice.
Between two meetings,
between two dreams,
she slips away
through silent seams.
Some hearts are closer
when they disappear—
between two meetings,
she’s always here.
She wears another layer,
between herself and me,
like she was always meant to live
where no one else can see.
A word, a glance, a simple touch—
they ask for all she’s got.
What takes the world a single day
is more than people thought.
Her body learned the language
of careful, measured grace.
Every step’s a conversation
time can never replace.
Some souls carry something
no reason can define.
Not everything that changes us
was meant to fit the mind.
Between two meetings,
between two dreams,
she slips away
through silent seams.
Some hearts are closer
when they disappear—
between two meetings,
she’s always here.
Between two meetings,
between the years,
I find her voice
inside the silence here.
Some answers
never come in sight—
they live beyond
our need for light.
Between two meetings…
she remains
the question
I still carry home.
Ballad of Resonance
I am not silent for lack of words,
I am silent for all I have heard.
Not just the voices, sharp and plain,
But all they hide between the veins.
The pause before the soft “I’m fine,”
The break that runs through every line,
The quiet louder than the speech,
A trembling truth just out of reach.
And I become an open room,
Where every echo finds its bloom.
One single phrase will stay with me,
While others move on easily.
Some will call it fragile, frail,
Too much feeling, a broken veil.
But I call it resonance, deep,
Where what I touch, I cannot keep.
When someone laughs or softly cries,
Something stirs beneath my skies.
A warmth that whispers, yes, I know,
A hidden chord begins to glow.
And when a sorrow wears a smile,
It bends inside me for a while.
Not with drama, not with flame,
Just a shadow without name.
I once believed I must be strong,
Speak out clearer, sing more songs.
But maybe it is enough to hear,
To feel the truth when it draws near.
I am no echo, no reply,
No amplifier reaching high.
I am a body made of sound,
That shapes the note and lets it ground.
I take the tone and make it mine,
A quiet song that lasts through time.
Forget the mirrors
When you step into cafés at night,
Shrouded in light, surrounded by life,
Forget the mirrors that hang on the wall,
Silent and large, telling it all,
Of lips that laugh and hearts that soar,
Of kisses thirsty, and midnight’s lore,
Of tears that fall in the quiet hours,
And seas that carry the weight of flowers.
Forget the noise, forget the wait,
The questions that chase you, sealing your fate,
The silence flows within your tides,
Where love grows wild, where it never hides.
The sail will catch your winds so free,
Carry you where you’re meant to be,
As long as you love the moon above,
It will guide you on wings of love.
The sea is you, your soul, the waves,
A sail comes to you, love it craves,
Grasping the winds that lie deep inside,
Take it gently, let it be your guide,
Sailing away on suns that gleam,
As long as your moon is part of your dream.
And when you sail on quiet wings,
You’ll hear the wind and what it sings,
The waves will carry what you’ve let go,
Love will find you wherever you flow.
Winter night
Snow drifts and flies,
the air cuts like knives,
bends the step, brushes past,
along the wind that forever lasts.
Still the scars of the year,
faded in summer’s cheer,
where the sun once called us near.
Where the shadow moves ahead,
far beyond where we tread,
leaving the footstep behind,
and from the past, intertwined,
the echo trails, out of breath,
panting in the field’s depth,
where the wind sows memories,
like seeds lost in endless seas.
Between bare trunks, so thin,
the moon begins to spin,
its light flows over the rows,
and there, at the edge, it shows,
calling out in cold flame:
“Live!” it whispers, but the same
remains unheard, alone,
in the rigid trees, all grown.
Beyond the vastness, where we roam,
we’ve already gone, far from home,
behind, only the shadow stays,
repeating through the endless days,
beneath the pale and distant star,
that never sees just how far.
Take a breath of winter’s air,
the flickering glow, faint and rare,
between the branches, cold and deep –
but the shadow, it will keep.
It remains. Forever, it remains.
LittleGreen Spirit
The little green spirit smiled.
Moss in his hair,
Dew in his eyes,
Following swallows for miles and miles.
He walked so softly,
The old trees knew.
The wind would carry
His song with the dew.
One autumn morning beside the lane,
The little green spirit smiled.
He found a bag
Left in the rain,
Forgotten there for days and days.
He closed his eyes,
The whole world slowed…
Out of the plastic
A poppy rose.
Where the wildflowers grow,
Where the gentle rivers flow,
Take my hand and walk awhile,
The little green spirit smiled.
Where the wildflowers grow,
Where the summer breezes blow,
Every flower tells the same:
Love remembers every name.
Bottles became tall sunflowers,
The little green spirit smiled.
Bluebells rang
Deep in the woods,
Daisies awakened where rubbish had stood.
People stood still,
Wondering why
Beauty had fallen
Out of the sky.
Then came the sea,
Cold and wide.
The little green spirit cried.
Wave after wave
Brought plastic ashore.
He worked till morning,
Then worked some more.
Still the tide
Would never end…
He bowed his head
Like a weary friend.
Then came children
Over the sand.
The little green spirit smiled.
They gathered bottles,
Laughed in the breeze.
Hope grows best,
They sang,
When shared with me.
Hand beside hand,
The shoreline shone.
No one can mend
The world alone.
Where the wildflowers grow,
Where the gentle rivers flow,
Take my hand and walk awhile,
The little green spirit smiled.
Where the wildflowers grow,
Where the morning swallows fly,
Love begins with simple things…
Listen… and the whole world sings.
If one spring morning
Flowers appear
Where yesterday
The waste was here,
Listen closely
To the trees…
Someone is walking
Upon the breeze.
Nobody knows
Where he may roam…
But every flower
Will lead him home.
The Red Kite
The late day sun was sinking,
a golden, lazy glow.
The curtains swayed so softly
in that sweet October breeze.
He turned his gaze out to the hillside,
a quiet joy appeared.
He chuckled with a twinkle, said,
„What a perfect day for kites.“
I pictured rolling fields past town,
a dirt road wide and bright,
a little kite of crimson cloth
laughing in the light.
I thought that I was flying it,
a fearless little kid—
I never saw those faithful hands
that held me in the wind.
Now I hold the line,
now I chase the sky.
The hands that once steadied mine
still lift me when I try.
The red kite climbs,
carefree on the air.
Love keeps on rising up-
it’s floating everywhere.
After he went home,
I found it in the dust,
shabby wood and faded cloth,
trimmed with quiet care.
Every stitch a little hymn,
every scar a storm,
every gentle mended place said,
„Child, keep leaning on.“
Time can change our voices,
wrinkle all the years,
but those Sunday-morning songs
still echo through our fears.
You don’t take just family names,
or pictures in a frame;
sometimes all you’re given is
that breeze that sings his name.
Now she holds the line,
I’m standing close behind.
The hands that once steadied mine
are singing through these lines.
The red kite climbs,
just like long ago.
Love keeps on rising up-
the Spirit shows
just where to blow.
The red kite climbs…
and so do we.
Still Following Me Home
We were only waiting,
two strangers in the light.
You leaned beside an open window,
summer dressed in white.
You spoke —
I never caught the words.
They vanished with the traffic,
lost among the birds.
But something in your voice
kept trembling in the air,
like a note no one could finish,
still suspended there.
Funny what remains
when years have had their way—
not the things we told each other,
only how they were said.
Your voice is still following me home,
crossing every mile I’ve ever known.
Long after every word has flown,
your voice is still following me home.
Sometimes in the evening light
I hear it moving through the quiet,
like a bell the wind remembers—
still following me home.
You pushed your sunglasses
back into your hair.
There was laughter in your eyes,
like sunlight resting there.
A ribbon of gold
fell across your knee.
Time held its breath
between the wall and me.
You leaned just far enough,
like a bow before release—
all desire and hesitation,
all unrest and peace.
Maybe first beginnings
never really end.
Maybe they keep breathing
just beneath our skin.
Your voice is still following me home,
crossing every mile I’ve ever known.
Long after every word has flown,
your voice is still following me home.
Every road I’ve walked since then
seems to lead me back again
to one forgotten afternoon—
still following me home.
Now your eyes are quieter.
Your laughter has grown thin.
Time has left its fingerprints
upon your skin.
Still, once in a while,
without a single word,
the years fall away,
and I hear that hidden chord.
Not your face.
Not your name.
Only the sound
that changed everything.
Your voice is still following me home,
like a river finding every stone.
Long after every dream has gone,
your voice is still following me home.
If love survives at all,
perhaps it isn’t memory—
only one small vibration
echoing endlessly.
Your voice…
still following me home.
New Year
A new beat that falls softly,
the hours carry their world
in an indefinite direction,
at the edge of time, in every place.
We continue to write what begins,
even if we are not yet many things.
Just a promise to tomorrow,
a plan that we borrow from life,
it flows by, still and clear,
hope searches in what was.
Let go of what weighed us down yesterday,
for tomorrow counts, what denies us.
It is a gaze that lifts us up,
that moves towards the horizon,
Time, it doesn’t wait, it flies,
only the lasting that weighs.
On a journey, indefinite,
that only a courageous heart can win.
A new beat falls soft and light,
the hours carry their own flight.
In a direction undefined,
at time’s edge, where paths unwind.
We keep writing what’s begun,
though we’re not yet many, just one.
A promise held for the morrow,
a plan we borrow from life’s sorrow.
It flows by, calm and clear,
hope seeks in what was near.
Let go of what weighed us down,
for tomorrow’s light lifts us from the ground.
It’s a glance that helps us rise,
that moves us toward the skies.
Time doesn’t wait, it flies,
only what lasts will survive.
On a journey, undefined,
where only brave hearts will find.
Toward the City
The day slips softly from the night,
humming on invisible strings.
It turns above the waking fields,
a lonely wheel with silver wings.
The morning pours across the land,
where rivers made of black roads run,
rolling to the emerald shore,
following the rising sun.
Carry me toward the city,
where the morning knows my name.
Carry me through painted gateways,
I’m still following the flame.
The wind is playing with the hours,
scattering seeds of loss and birth.
Every leaf becomes a story,
every stone recalls the earth.
An old black kettle starts to sing
beside the bones of a broken wing.
Its patient fire never dies,
it only waits for spring.
Carry me toward the city,
where the morning knows my name.
Carry me through painted gateways,
I’m still following the flame.
Underneath the swelling heavens
drifts a shadow dark as coal.
Over roofs and silent market squares,
over every searching soul.
Past the laughter of the faithless,
past the merchants calling loud,
still the morning keeps its promise
hidden in a silver cloud.
Now the day has crossed the river,
now the hills are dressed in gold.
Every journey finds another,
every ending leaves a road.
So I’ll follow where the wind goes,
where the rainbow gateways stand.
Someone calls beyond the skyline …
and I think they know my hand.
Carry me toward the city,
where the morning knows my name.
Carry me through painted gateways,
I’m still following the flame.
The day slips softly from the night …
Calling Me by Name
Maybe someone holds the thread,
Maybe no one does.
Still the morning finds my heart,
Calling me by name.
There is a garden time forgot,
Where childhood’s shadows fade;
The flowers bloom for no one’s eyes,
In quiet, cool arcade.
The dreams we left upon the wind
Still whisper soft and low,
Like leaves that dance through autumn skies,
Where only memories go.
We’re woven into morning light,
Through joy and loss the same;
By unseen hands we find our road,
Though no two hearts are tame.
If Heaven holds the silver threads,
Or chance has led us through,
I’ll keep on walking toward the dawn,
Believing love is true.
The river keeps the songs we knew,
The hills recall our feet.
The silence speaks in gentle ways
No words could ever meet.
Each road I thought had reached its end
Became another start.
The longest journey I have made
Was back into my heart.
Maybe someone holds the thread,
Maybe no one does.
Still the morning finds my heart,
Calling me by name.
Are you the dew on morning grass?
The light beneath the sky?
The answer lives where silence grows,
Though words may never try.
I hear the call beyond the years,
It echoes deep and clear;
The road is long, the road is wide,
But somehow you are near.
Maybe someone holds the thread,
Maybe no one does.
Still the morning finds my heart,
Calling me by name.
If your hand should find my hand,
We’ll never walk alone.
Every road beneath the stars
Is leading someone home.
Maybe someone holds the thread,
Maybe no one does.
Still the morning finds my heart,
Calling me by name.