Dream Note 17 –Royal Supper

In a dark mist, the blind treads,
in good conscience they pray for light.
What pitiful soul would hear their sighs,
in this unholy land of unreserved blight?

Calmly, my friend and I stroll,
by the little river along this familiar road,
across the stone bridges where the palace stands,
inside the gates her chandeliers behold.

Post our affairs a supper awaits,
on the table, lay three, six, or eight plates,
a stray phantom his blazers hang,
my regal comport the clock plagues.

In the palace garden the headless runs,
without guilt for blood they demand.
Self-mutilated souls atop this pitiless earth;
a mordant affair of hare hunting stags.

Published in: on 23/01/2021 at 2:50 PM  Leave a Comment  
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Dream Note No. 16 – The Slaughter of the Lambs


Before my eyes the dark clouds open,
as I watch the sad fate for a pack of five,
who rides the train to a nearby haven,
led by a young prince and his father’s wife.

In this village a mansion resides,
wherein a butcher in white cloak hides,
by the name of ‘Dr.’ he holds his knife,
lacerating corpses on his holy bed.

On the young man’s back I count scars,
marking the hearts that hallowed blood,
ensnared on his bed the warrior lies,
as I with others watch from behind bars.

With mastery Dr. pinches the scalpel,
opening up the young man’s corpse,
with skills the Dr. takes hold of the liver,
and with care a piece is cleanly carved.

And to the heart still via arteries attach,
the youth mindlessly endures this bane,
with mechanical vice the heart they slash,
I am the youth, in this painless pain.

As fears burn in those marbled eyes,
as silent screams deafened the scene,
as time freezes in a fleeting chaos,
the Dr. leaves, from the exit in.

Now in the garden of aubergine and bleen,
Alice sits on the limestone fence,
in mystical airs shrouded we are,
I become Alice, with half a heart.

As I, Alice, conjures up a plan,
to escape the menace we don’t understand,
as our pack hustles to the river side,
by rusted buildings, by the glimmering night.

On the other side it seems we were,
ashore the sea that feeds this river,
trembling, we pushed him off the rocks,
as deadly silence consumed all light.

Although we prayed that he be drowned,
yet we know the truth we do not crown; now
all roads are lost, in this perilous night,
so we scramble to find the evil in sight.

Yet none could see a sign of him,
for sure in the sewers, are paths before paved,
so we dare not return to the peaceful abode,
but nor have we anywhere else to go.


In the quarantined city of Peter’s garden,
the stench of chlorine assaults my senses.
There is a map, always in sight,
in the south-western quarter we reside.

We slaughtered them, those suicidal fiends,
this apocalyptic residence we carelessly rinsed,
on the second floor of a once lavish apartment,
overlooking a street, by an avenue cleansed.

Admiralteyskaya, the northern hub,
at the end of the first turn from our street,
two stations away from this northern hub,
stands our office in the south-east.

Again we are, a pack of five:
a couple, our boss, and a light-hearted girl;
little did we know, the fiends had returned,
as we round Admiralteyskaya whirl.

By our bend, ourselves we stall,
we dare not return to the hanging hall,
the couple, the girl are somewhere now,
as our boss return to office somehow.

I enter, on three tranquil soul,
afore the ornate mirror I call;
she floats over, we make love.
The city crumbles, into dust.

(Music: Lubomyr Melnyk “Fallen Trees”)

Dream Note No. 15 – Капли Дождевые

Falling, into the depth, hark –
the howling of this dry youthful well;
there are clouds within my heart,
where raindrops hardly hold themselves.

In history’s stain the victors are righteous,
for we neglect the passing hours;
whether autumn answers winter’s calls,
who is the arbiter of this lawless world?

In dreams the righteous are victorious,
for the unrighteous act of playing God;
behind a veil old faces return,
when the lifeless dreams in a raindrop.

Such speed is this reckless world,
for the world is our ambitious task;
yet do you know that ambitions are,
but a veil for our anxious heart.

For the beauty of life I weep,
for the meaning we did not cherish,
bestowed upon life by our artful soul,
and buried in dust by the mindless ghoul.

For our withering friends I weep,
for their love that gave beauty meaning,
for the heartful letter that gave way to text,
for my wilted regret, when raindrops fall.

Dream Note No. 14 – Five Nightmares

The steel helmets march in,
decimating this lifeless land;
in anguish the helpless burn,
on black marshes the children stand.

There is nothing I could do,
for in paralysis I lay bare,
when children ran in on the spectacle,
of a cherished yet forsaken mare.

In dreams I dream of my airy cask,
in the air I wield a blunted sword,
again before this old indigo dusk,
resolute and honest does the blade thrust.

In estranged land she brings to me,
fruits from a lake of blood,
formed as the emperor’s dessert,
into crumbles the world shatters.

O what before a long sleep stand,
when in sleep we dream of this prelude,
tormented and morphed into despair,
in sleep I sleep in a no-return land.

Yet strange it is the barrel shakes not,
for all but episodes of a crimson plot,
when snow falls on a traveller’s path,
as light drapes over a loveless knot.

Published in: on 05/01/2020 at 10:07 AM  Leave a Comment  
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Dream Note No. 13 – Chopin

An arrival at a lodging by the sea,
like a piece from Aivazovsky;
with a party under the old pine bridge,
the trial sets our afflictions free.

The impending waves our comrades flank,
yet in peace and grace advances our rank;
on the rocky islet our senses embrace,
the scent of roses from a whitened bank.

Under the staircase the catacombs call,
at my retreat under the noble floor;
I chance upon your slumbering notes,
in a dark gallery by a marble door.

From nowhere chants a nocturnal plea,
as buried ghosts cling to their creed;
though the earthy waves their mirrors purge,
in ashes the familiar shadows they see.

Published in: on 04/11/2019 at 10:21 PM  Leave a Comment  
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Dream Note No. 12 – Жаворонок

Empty handed on an empty stage,
fingers frozen in a distant past;
forgotten melodies on an empty page,
forgotten friends in a wooden cast.

Which notes recount the summer days,
when dreams of winter imbue my heart?
Which, songs would autumn praise,
no more, he hears of the youthful lark.

For whom, the rainbow? They ride a gale,
riding along an unmarked road;
defiled by his vulgar flail,
redeemed by his Opheliac abode.

Cherished in his bloodstained hand,
memories to their gazes chained;
before the homely gates they stand,
that began with the windows stained.

By the balcony the lovebirds part,
with sweet murmurs of delicate love;
as she falls toward the lavish pines,
as marble before a labyrinth he stands.

The silent intruder the libraries hail,
in arias from his nightly ghost;
down he spirals on a silvery trail,
what courage he finds in this abyssal host.

Still the larks are in peace asleep,
as he steps onto the reminiscent rug;
urgency calls for a unexamined sweep,
for the night too shall return to sleep.

Yet reveries stun his capricious mind,
as old age returns with a blissful light;
as the silvery trail become diamond steps,
from his cello the lark takes flight.

Published in: on 12/09/2019 at 4:54 PM  Leave a Comment  
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Dream Note No. 11 – White Moscow

Nothing stirs in the early hours,
save the silent falling of moon dust,
onto the windows of the Kremlin towers,
into white hills on the red square.

We trod along the silvery road,
marked each path with our toiling past,
yet the holy tears are silent and cold,
blotting out our fervent errs.

In the outskirts the rustling leaves,
are swaying with the howling gust;
the uninvited guest they must receive,
quivering in the wintry air.

Than deific voices colder still,
silencing silence with mortal casks,
swiftly it faded by the heavenly will,
into red hills on our white despair.

Published in: on 26/02/2019 at 12:43 PM  Leave a Comment  
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