Tracks

02. November Nights Insomnia
03. Cold Spring
05. Star Catcher
06. Burnt Letters
07. About Which An Old House Dreams



02. November Nights Insomnia

My old lonely house filled with the smell
of burnt fallen leaves. Sound of passing birds' wings...
Trembling, oldness, twilight...
Candle is fading, books, old photos are in disorder on the floor.
Wind is throwing naked black branches into the window.
I'll not fall asleep this night.
At the dawn behind a pale veil,
I'll see like in black white mute cinema
Those who are long ago passed.


03. Cold Spring

I've seen dreams of winter's end, soil naked grey shadows of sun.
Dead birds on the blackened snow.
Awaiting something really dark
Mist and wet spring wind are my only companions in twilight
They are always with me when the last snow dies
Only a few windows are enlightened
What am I searching for among these archaic black ghost like houses?
Dreams never give answers, only after taste...
But effaced keys in my hand,
Old stairs squeak, in dull light, at the round table.
Shadows of those, who gave me
My only companions
Mist and wet spring wind.


05. Star Catcher

I'll gather a handful of stars
Sitting in a boat-crescent
Will disperse
The waves-clouds
With chilling wind
Hit the bank shore...tree tops
And descend the branches
To the forest lake
My crown of stars
i'll wrap in a sack of moss
and emerald fragrant grass
throw into the waters dark
for huge black fish swallow
when the water turns into ice
let the wanderer tired
catch that fish
with moonlight, with silent old song
let my crown of stars be a gift for him
milky way...his throne.


06. Burnt Letters

Behind your window the town is falling asleep.
My path is crowned with stars in a pre-dawn sky...
Your room is flooded with spring morning sunlight
My steps are hidden by December snowstorm
With an old white feather, drowned in raindrops
I write you letters on October leaves.
The winds will retell them to you in dreams
and spring will weave into your hair the song of May


07. About Which An Old House Dreams

Forgotten and silent an old house,
sleeping long ago, doesn't care about human passions.
It's stones remember each step, each tear,
each falling leaf's moan, each snowflake on the pavement.
Autumn sun will heat its roof, the birds will look
into all its windows, the wind will caress the cold walls,
the moon will whisper the dreams of distant youth.