Einhorn

It Must be The Rain.

2012-01-20T04:31:00.001+01:00

It must be the rain that is washing everything away.
There is no way all could be forgotten so easily so fast, it must be the rain.
Drop by drop it washes off the thoughts, the memories, the ideas, the pain, the suffering, the will to resist and the wish to change from our heads.
As every bead of rain follows the headskin, frees itself from us, drips onto the ground and soaks these forsaken streets in rain water, little by little it paves our cities with the crimes and the sufferings we are fogetting.
I can only be the rain, how else would we be so deaf, while the cries keep calling for us louder and louder?
The rain must have also rendered our hands cold and slippery.
No other possible explanation for how our hands got so far, while it was yesterday we stood side by side in a shield wall to protect our dreams.
It must be the rain, since I have been hearing nothing else for ages now.

Naar ô Ney... *

2011-11-29T01:53:00.003+01:00

The pomegranate I bought today comes all the way from Iran. I stared at the address on the big pack in the supermarket for some while, several times taking a glance at the price tag saying exclusively that the exotic delicacy came from Itan... The box had the address written on it and said Shariati Ave. which made me smile bitterly. That is like the second longest street in Tehran, you know?One from the central parts up high to the mountains of the north. Truth be told, I traveled all along this 'Avenue' only once, it took hours and felt like ages, when I finally arrived in the north.

The one pomegranate in the fruit basket on our table has been stuck in the same traffic jam, making its way to the same airport, so it has had almost the same trip, which brought me to this home of mine...

No wonder why pomegranates symbolize passion, love, longing and yearning in Persian literature and poetry; the longer I smell and stare at the shiny red fruit, the more it feels natural to me.

There is one fruit on our table now, which looks just like fine poetry...

*The title means 'The Pomegranate and the Flute', it is also the name of a film. Ney is famous for its melancholic music and it is said that since the Phragmites, from which Ney is made, has been cut off and taken away from its home, the instrument keeps singing songs of separation and yearning.

Keep holding me in your Hands...

2011-11-22T00:31:00.003+01:00

My mind goes blank

and I forget the taste of the bread I have just eaten,

I forget the bitterness of the sweet wine I drank,

I forget the earth you brought with you all the way;

carrying in the palm of your both hands.

Yet my tears of all these years keep falling down,

drop by drop they quench the earth.

Growth is inevitable, as long as we are still here,

as long as you long for being here,

in front of me, having crossed land and time.

I might have forgotten all,

but still I see the new life blooming in the palm of your hands;

I see and I realize,

I realize your new scars, the new wrinkles on your beloved face,

and I most definitely remember your dashing smile;

the warmth of which my eyes are missing, looking at your face now.

I will always remember, as long as you long for me;

it is the longing, the pain of separation and the love

which will feed the tiny leaves,

growing to be the strongest tree.

It will be our forest, as long as you are still here

as long as my tears still fall into your hands.

Random Chaotic Thoughts

2011-09-01T15:57:00.003+02:00

Something new, something different, something unheard of

No one has known the taste of living freely,

yet so many have dreamed of freedom;

so many keep dreaming and keep nurturing the dream.

So many fight over it, fight for it, stand up and stand for it.

It must be one sweetest dream,

if so many gamble everything for the sake of one single dream.

“If freedom sang a song...”, described the poet once

and it makes me wonder, makes me want to imagine that song.

Whether a dream, a ray of hope or just a mere illusion,

freedom still feels more real than anything ever experienced, felt or lived.

As we take one another by the hand

and then by our own choice raise our hands in the air;

like when we listen to each other's voices

and freely decide to raise our song throughout eternity,

our imperfect, humane version of a song freedom might sing,

it feels much more real than any other notion,

feels true far more than anything else we have ever done.

Smashing down the walls with our fists then serves as

the only real act for reconstruction of this human world.

A dream of what none of us has ever known holds the truth to our existence.

Taking one more step into the whirlwinds,

one more lap against the stream, one more smile on a bloody face,

makes it easier to realize, that some have known the impossible all along.

For a free spirit is not tied down by any shackles.

Die Tränen, verloren in der Strömung

2011-08-27T01:49:00.002+02:00

„Hast du deine Tränen gefunden?“, hat sie mich plötzlich gefragt.

Ich hatte sie immer beneidet, wie sie ruhig weinen konnte, wenn es wichtig oder notwendig war, zu weinen. Oft hatte ich gewünscht, sie würde auch für mich weinen. Zweimal hatte ich sie sogar darum bitten wollen.

Ich habe sie eine kurze Weile angeschaut, ich musste selber darüber nachdenken. Ich wusste, dass ich für eine bestimmte Person jede Zeit Tränen gießen kann. Egal wie oft und wie viel, fast jeder Gedanke an sie endet mit Tränen. Doch je länger ich daran dachte, desto klarer wurde es mir bewusst, dass ich dabei auf Omas Hilfe angewiesen bin. Sie ist es immer, die dafür sorgt, dass ich weinen kann und damit mich davor behütet, in den Wunden zu wühlen und sie tiefer durchzuschlitzen.

„Nur für Ana.“, antwortete ich also.

Doch eins habe ich vergessen, ihr zu sagen. Ich dachte in dem Moment so sehr an Ana, dass ich vergaß, wie ich das erste Mal an der Prießnitz geweint hatte. Ich kam damals am Bach an, hatte noch keine Ahnung, wo ich mich befand und trotzdem habe ich mich wie in der Prophezeiung ausgeheult. Und wenn ich jetzt darauf zurück blicke, Daddy, und an deine Frage denke... wenn ich dann auch an alle andere Male an der Prießnitz denke und das mir unbekannte dennoch vertraute Gefühl...

'Vielleicht fließen auch meine Tränen im Bach von der Heide heraus...', musste ich denken, als ich wieder einmal zum August in Prießnitz schritt. Mir überkam auch das Sehnen danach, da zu weinen. In dem Bach, endlich wo ich zu Hause war, wo ich mich geborgen und wohl fühlte, wo ich endlich ganz sein durfte, wollte ich die Schmerzen weinen, alle Wunden, die ich genommen habe, die Alpträume, die Trauer, die Einsamkeit, die Sehnsucht, ich wollte sie alle weinen, ich war dafür bereit. Ich war bereit, loszulassen und zu fallen, auf den Bachgrund, in das klare Wasser, in die sanfte Strömung der Prießnitz.

An dem folgenden Tag, als ich mich wieder in Sicherheit des Waldes befand, der aber nicht meine Heide war, konnte ich endlich loslassen.

Wer hätte gedacht? Es ist anscheinend für mich doch einfacher, meine Tränen zu kotzen als zu weinen.

*Der Text braucht eine heftige Korrektur. :/

Smile for me!

2011-08-22T17:26:00.003+02:00

She knows this scent.

You can not say it is blood or sweat, it is not the dust in the air nor the whipping wind. It smells far different, although it contains them all in one way or another. It might as well be the fear or rage, it might be dread, grief, hope or glory. Nevertheless she knows they are all false, none of them really exists. They are nothing but mere illusions, what everyone dreams of or pretends to feel while on the battlefield.

No matter how many walk by you as you are rushing to the fight, everyone will still stand alone in the midst of the battle, everyone fights alone and dies alone. She knows the scent of this loneliness as well as the fatigue in her feet from carrying her across all battlefields.

She has long given up the foolish urge of fighting by someone's side. She is a wanderer, bound to ride alone through the endless night which has been casting a devouring darkness upon her life.

And yet she was lately introduced to a completely different luxury she could not have ever known of. Recently there has been someone, waiting on her outside the battlefields. When she stands there, fighting on her own, she knows that after each battle is over, he will be there, awaiting her return with a warm smile. She will lick her wounds before getting to him, she will not cry in pain, nor will she ask him to carry her. Still he will be there, a quiet place outside the battlefields for her to return to. Even should it be just for the time being, she knows she has a peaceful shelter to lie down and rest...

Back Pain

2011-07-29T21:05:00.000+02:00

Sometimes when my back hurts I imagine people trying to break my wings off. I never really had the experience, so I do not really know the pain. Once they were about to take them off by surgery. It did not hurt though, considering all the anesthetics I was under. Considering their condition back then I did not really feel any threat. All the doctors and other medics made a very considerate and reassuring impression on me; maybe a bit too reassuring.

It was after all the injuries and the damage the wings had taken. I had was in constant pain and every day it was unbearable pressure trying to move around with giant broken wings on my back and to make matters worse, they were also wounded on the outside. Not moving them at all was putting me in more danger in due time and every time I tried flying or at least flapping them a bit I just worsened the injuries, not to speak of the sheer pain.

That was why all in all a surgery seemed very reasonable back then and the I could not see much against going with it, since it seemed as though I was never flying with these wings anyways.

I could not have guessed wronger.

Since it was just local anesthesia I could still hear them talk while operating on my back. It was then it stroke me that they were all way too reassuring for a surgery which seemed to be a rather simple one. At least that was what I had been told: a simple plastic surgery, would take a bit longer for the wounds on my back to fully heal, yet nothing to worry about. With my head facing the floor, I could of course not see their expressions as they bent over my back and I could not feel the first cut on my skin due to the anesthetics but I saw their shadows bending over me and suddenly it felt heavy on my back. I literally felt on my senseless skin that something truly wrong was going on.

It was like my wings were calling to me... or maybe it were the trees. Yes, it must have been the trees talking in my head. I suddenly remembered all the nights I had dreamed of flying, all the nights tossing and turning in my bed with injured wings. I remembered all the blows they had taken to keep me safe. I remembered how they looked back when they were still in shape: black and wide openly stretched. Luckily for me my legs were not the slightest bit numb, so I got up on them as fast as I could and started running. I still do not know why I had to run, the thought of losing my wings had really gotten to me and I wanted to break them to safety as fast as possible. So I ran out of there.

It was a couple of month after the failed surgery that they were healed, completely. I flew once again, I flew up high freely and I knew why I was suddenly overcome by the urge of keeping my wings in the surgery.

I can not understand why but very often, when my back hurts, I feel as though someone were trying to break off my wings. When I feel the sharp pain at the central end of the collar bones, exactly at the right spot, I fear they would want to separate my wings again...

Patience

2011-07-12T23:07:00.006+02:00

There is a world waiting for you at the next crossroad.

Sometimes, when this world gets impatient it gives birth to all new kinds of birds and fish, just to make time pass a bit more conveniently.

At times it even considers a new cluster of shooting stars, one for each wish you would need a star to fulfill for you.

There are colors there which only shine in your imagination and scents that have existed solely in your mind.

One of these days music will be born there, just to sing the yearning for you all across this universe.

Once or twice this world had to change the course of fate, just to make sure you would be passing by the destined crossroad.

There is this whole world of awe awaiting you; to create it.

Scary Little New Story

2011-07-09T21:03:00.000+02:00

This just occurred to me and I have really no idea who this new guy is or about the story behind these confused words:

There is this thing I never told you about... no matter how many times I really intended to go for it and come out clear I just could not. It is like every time I really make a go for it I suddenly find you standing right in front of me, as though you have been awaiting this moment all along. I try not to give it much though and just let pour out this burden but I fail as soon as I pick up the first word to say.

There is so much we should be talking about and the longer we wait, the higher grows this wall between us. So I tried, I tried so many times to shake any bridge inside this wall, yet in vain. I just do not have what it takes. My feet tremble and I stumble over my desires each time I make up my mind to cross that border and finally reach out to you. I hate this weakness.

I loathe this hesitation inside my head which keeps waiting and waiting, the one which has already started taking the world away from me. I know that I just would have to spill out the first words. It is funny how words can destroy so much so easily and how still nothing seems to built without them. When it comes to humans, they hold an unbeatable power, they are somehow unbeatable... after all, I am just another coward, even if it is the eerily immense power of words which I fear.

And still I can not ignore the fact for the rest of my days, that all will fall apart if we do not reach out to each other...

Do you sometimes feel how much I want you to ask me how I am doing?

Daily Whispers

2011-07-05T23:43:00.001+02:00

You suddenly feel so tired, so utterly exhausted and then there comes the solemn wish. You just want to let go, you wish to quit, to give up everything. All you have ever been, all what you have ever wanted, you would leave it all behind for peace of mind.
It has been struggling day in and day out, your body and your mind are worn out, your soul is bleeding and your heart is aching and now the thought of surrender becomes more tempting each time you think about it.

Just give it all up, let go, stop fighting and get yourself a peaceful corner... or even not. It does not matter what comes afterwards, since you won't be fighting anymore. It will all be peaceful and quiet. Even should you be suffering grave pain, it would be all in silence, your heart should be at peace, your mind would be at ease, since you are not going to join the battle any more.

And then there is the flash of light, this bright sparkle inside both your eyes.

What about your dreams? Could you really leave them then?

If you stopped fighting for them, if you stopped wanting them so much and if you stopped reaching out to them... you know how lonely they would be!

Gary's Version

2011-06-28T19:05:00.001+02:00

I was holding this tiny woman in my arms last night and was watching over her sleep. It was fascinating to think that something like her could actually fall asleep and wander in the realm of dreams. And the long dark silky hair was practically everywhere: on her pillow, on my pillow, on the mattress, right in front of my eyes, over her shoulder and even in my hand. It was funny how it looked as through threads of her thoughts, threads right from her head were flowing all over my life.

When had I gotten myself stuck with her? Was it the day we both smelled trouble coming and had to run away from home, away from dad and Georg?

Not really. Being honest with myself, I would have to admit that it goes way further in the past.

Was it when she moved in with us? Or when dad assigned her as his student assistant? I don't know, I can not remember any more but I am stuck, I could see it in her hair last night. It was flowing everywhere, even inside my head. So I suddenly felt the urge to smell it, to know the scent of this mystery surrounding me in the dark of the night. It took me a couple of minutes before I made sure that she was fast asleep. So I firmly bent a little bit, just a little bit forward and took a deep breath. She did not wake up, she had absolutely no idea about what I was doing. I had smelled it though so I now had to grin victoriously.
It felt good, the tiny thing I was holding.

A Unicorn Story - Warning for extreme Human Contant

2011-06-25T20:24:00.003+02:00

It was kind of your usual story right out of the closet. The rich kid befriends the poor kid and they could not have belonged to more different worlds. Yet they made a world of their own, built up a whole universe where they could grow up together and forget all which was meant to separate them. And then just like you would read in one of those novels you pretty soon find out that the rich kid's life was being more or less dictated while the poor kid went around making experiences in life, so they both struggled, they both dreamed and eventually grew up. At first the rich family was not very satisfied with this friendship, not because of wealth but much more because of the dangerous background of the poor family: outcasts of their society for thinking differently. With time of course they got to know the kid befriending their child and grew a liking for the poor kid, the rich kid of course being welcomed to the circle of the poor family all along.

With years a friendship grows dear and strong, the bond is supposed to become unbreakable. It was no different with those two. The poor kid started struggling for the choices made and the rich kid kept trying to make as many choices as possible.
So the rich kid fell in love with the best friend who had not left this battlefield all these year, who had been there regardless of weather or not that kid liked the rich life of the friend and the path chosen for the child of such family. The love of the rich kid very soon became the nightmare of the poor kid, a greatest fear. It was not about what anyone else would have thought for in due time everyone had gotten to believe in their legendary friendship. It was the very fact that the kid was unable to return the love of a best friend. Surely the poor kid felt love for the rich kid, but the affection between two friends was no longer what the rich kid was after. So she gave in, she decided she was going to play this game, to help the rich kid make the very first choices no one had dictated before, she decided she was going to protect her best friend with all she had, to protect the friend with the wings of a unicorn, since those mythical creatures were famous for their protective power. The wings took blows, were stabbed, crushed, soon the pain started and yet she kept them wrapped around the friend.

Still she could not trick herself, she was not in love and every night they spent together drag all the power out of her mind and body, living her sick and in disgust with herself the next mornings after the best friend left. The best friend saw only the burning flames of passion, an eternal love for her, an insatiable affection for her, since the responses coming from her were not exactly what the rich kid had been looking forward to. The image of the weakening friend was so obsessing that the wings protecting the rich kid from the rest of the world were not seen any longer. Soon she was bleeding all over, hated herself for putting a show in front of her best friend, despised for deceiving herself, lying to her mind and misleading her body. She kept rejecting every other friend who might have had awakened a passion in her, kept all whom she could fall in love with in great distance, fearing of how it could have hurt her very best friend. Nevertheless she knew she was not able to keep pretending much longer, that she was not going to be playing this role to the satisfaction of the other one, simply because it was a fake.

Yet inside she felt proud of her friend who had finally come to making a choice, not an easy one but a real choice, without letting what others said or did make this person turn back. She felt so proud that she kept her wings even tighter around the kid, taking more blows.

The rich kid never knew, how the price she was paying for her best friend to make a choice and to stand up to it was way beyond the amount on any bank account.

And then she was left. She was suddenly left all alone in the midst of winter. The friend had seen something in her eyes, something unknown to scare the hell out of the rich kid. The thought of not knowing her after all these years seemed impossible to this one, the kid did not bear the sight, was frightened by the thought of so much more about her still left unknown.

This frightening truth was nothing other than a look into the eyes of a wild black unicorn.

And to be punished for letting her friend see what was not meant for most humans, the unicorn was left all alone in the snows of winter, injured, hurt, stabbed.

Write Aida, write thousand seas!

2011-06-20T00:07:00.002+02:00

Write the tears you can not cry!

Write for the dreams you need to keep alive!

Write when you have the feeling you can not run anymore, you can not run fast enough!

Write for the hands torn apart from yours!

Write remembering all the eyes set lovingly upon you!

Write whenever you can not speak the words!

Write when the pain makes your fingers numb!

Write all the songs you are not supposed to be singing!

Write the nightmares that have come true before your eyes!

Write all the madness which is driving you crazy!

Write the broken pens, guitars, bones and promises!

Write the bars, the barbed wire, the shackles, the coffin!

Write all the forbidden colors!

Write all the dances tied down by lashing!
Write the drunkenness of the forbidden wine!

Write all the passionate hearts which will eternally beat!

Write for every silenced scream!
Write for every blood smeared smile!

And do not forget to write your name...

The Young Schwarzinger

2011-06-13T19:54:00.001+02:00

"Sie sind jung, sind wie Esel, sind dumm, verstehen nichts!", mentioned by so many about the younger generation and yet the legacy goes on!

"!جوونن، خرن، احمقن، نمی فهمن"

...

The Story of our World*

2011-06-11T14:14:00.001+02:00

Once upon a time, in a place not far away, where we all lived

There lived a child, there lived many children

And they dreamt every day, of things they would do

Of the world they were growing up into

They dreamt of what would be, of the years to come

They dreamt of how they would make the world

To fit their dreams and their wishes

The child kept playing hard everyday

Playing the games of how this dream world should be

For the children knew how serious it was,

Turning the world to a place of their dreams

So they played more seriously and longer

Until the grown ups could not stand them 'wasting their time' any more

So they called the children back to their homes

Back to their 'homework', trying to raise them properly

So eventually the children forgot playing together

And were engaged in the plans of their parents for their future

Eventually, they forgot their own wishes

And forgot the world they had dreamt for themselves

They even forgot all the hard work put into their dreams

And became tiny mirrors of the grown ups

And so the world turned out to be...

____________________________________________

*And again I can not be really creative with names. X_x

Accounts of the Story Teller

2011-06-08T20:23:00.004+02:00

The wind is telling stories again, way too many all at the same time.... How can I pick one to tell?

Back at Home in Dresden

2011-06-02T18:09:00.001+02:00

I was waiting, sitting there invisibly among other patients. Some had company and some were there on their own like me. The clinic in Dresden was absolutely silent despite people whispering to each other and doctors and nurses running up and down the corridor.  

And suddenly it was Gary sitting there on the wheelchair and not me, waiting for the doctor to pick him up for more tests. He was about 12 years old, his dad had brought him to the university clinic and had waited there with him for about an hour before he had had to go to work. At that time he knew that complaining was not going to make any difference so he was just watching everything with a cruel patience, watching the time he did not have anymore go by in the hectic of the university clinic in Dresden. Sometimes he just watched the adults around him and sometimes he stared at the shiny stones under the wheelchair.  

The pain was unbearable but he had stopped reacting to it, for one because he had already had enough of painkillers and for another, cause at that stage he knew how little difference it would have made, it would just make other patients mad at him or what was even worse, it would have caught too much attention and then pity of the grown ups, esp. since there was no one by his side. He thought of how he would have loved to shout at his twin brother and tease him again but then the memory of Georg's crying all the time made him regret his wish. No one had felt so desperate, so horrified by the thought of what was happening inside Gary's young body than Georg.  

The two of them never understood each other well although they were the only ones who knew what the other was really thinking, what he wanted and how he felt. Nothing ever changed this absurd closeness of the brothers, not until death did them part.  

So Gary did actually miss Georg while he was sitting there on his own, focusing on the wheelchair in order to feel less pain and in order to at least look patient on the outside while waiting for the doctor, who had already passed by him several times without even looking at the young boy awaiting more and more tests and examination than he had already went through.

At the end, it was Gary Schwarzinger on the wheelchair the nurse picked up, it was Gary shivering in pain, it was Gary holding back tears and not me. 

Flames in the Horizon

2011-05-26T11:40:00.000+02:00

It is obvious from how the wind suddenly blows gently over the skin

or the way the sky seems to bear a subtle yearning;

Then the trees seem to be growing every second you look at them

and the river is suddenly flowing inside your head.

Steps echo differently, the solid ones you take,

like an oath between your feet and the ground, never to be broken.

The walls do not seem to be captivating anything anymore,

nor shall doors stand a chance against the grip of your mighty hands any longer.

You hear it, you hear them, you hear everything

clearly in your pounding heart...

Temptation

2011-05-21T13:58:00.002+02:00

It should be sweet, even though to me, it tastes bitter like strong coffee and dark chocolate.

They say it should feel fair and delicate and to me it smells rough like old cheese on a slice of heavy black bread.

But nevertheless it must be inviting like a blooming white Marguerite with dashing white petals reaching towards the burning sun.

I has to feel right like swimming in crystal clear water of a peaceful lake on a midsummer day.

It should of course feel natural as well, like a piece of music taking over your mind, like the urge to dance taking over your body.

And it has to be – above all – fulfilling, satisfying, like the first sip of good, old, and brute wine.

Them Schwarzingers

2011-05-17T00:46:00.004+02:00

It was not hard to see through the fact that I was a Schwarzinger.The more I looked into it, the more trivial it sounded. It felt as though the Schwarzingers had been waiting for me all along to finally have some sort of an incarnation, one living, breathing and out of flesh. With time, different aspects of a Schwarzinger-being revealed themselves on me and my first time in Dresden was like a great awakening.

I could hear the jolly cries of all those Schwarzingers, hear the happy music in the background and all the loud noises of their celebration, when I walked out of Café Pot that first evening. I could see them jumping into eachother's arms and congratulating one another, when I finally found my way to the Prießnitz. So could I also hear the wine bottles popping open, when I celebrated Gary's birth there...

There was only one thing left, one tiny detail which kept me away from turning fully Schwarzinger: the very "sacred" ritual, how they officially mated with someone for life. I could not understand it, I hated it, really loathed it, the mere thought of me nauseated me in disgust. I did not want to see into it, that anything in me might ever want to do that to another person, esp. to a loved one. And it was not without sadness that I thought of it because I knew deep within that I was a Schwarzinger and yet this one detail I did not want to accept.

It was all, until that night the beautiful creature stood right in front of me.

It was not the first time we looked directly into eachothers' wild eyes, not the first time I felt the world around me go blur and drag me into another realm, one which I had longed for all these years, one I had searched for everywhere on this earth, one I had kept believing in. It was not the first time I had seen the strength in those hands, which demonstrated the kind of determination and sovereignty not seen among mankind... or at least not often.But that night was the first time I smelled the scent so clearly, one which is not comparable to anything, anyone I have known so for. Like a delicate breeze, inviting, tempting, one like the taste of Marguerite petals, like the heat of red wine.

The moment it stroke me, it was the hardest to hold back and to hold on to my senses, I felt it, I felt it taking a hold of my insides. Despite all the people around us I felt lightheaded, I felt my hands shivering with excitement, I experienced anew the feeling one undergoes, when suddenly something changes forever, something inside oneself. Yet this change is of an inevitable nature, since I knew afterwards, that which had become, had always been dwelling inside me, only undiscovered, unrevealed.

So I wanted to grab those heavenly beautiful hands, to drag the creature behind me until none of those people who could never understand would watch anymore and then to do it.

As scary as the urge was, I still did not really care about it back then. It felt right, it felt like an only choice. It was nothing to enjoy, neither for amusement, much more like a last resort to flee to. It was then I knew the desperation, the hope with which this sacred sin was committed. The longer I looked into those eyes, the deeper I sank into the desire, the need, the sadness of knowing what I might lose at every moment.

As the background voices of others around us became clearer in my head, I could fully understand a Schwarzinger for the very first time...

I was now a full fledged Schwarzinger, just as the stories talked about them.

Friends

2011-05-14T17:05:00.004+02:00

Your quivering hand, but not because of the frost

I held your hand tight in mine,
while you were quivering in pain

It was the silence, which hurt most

The silence which stole your cries from my ears,

The same which hid your tears from me

I thought of a thousand ointments I could have made

I tried my best to remember all the remedies
I might have known

I did my very best, desperately,
to maybe ease your suffering

Yet what could cure a pain so deep under
skin, flesh and bone?

I held your hand, stepped stronger forwards, trying to be as solid as the mountains you cherished so

I wanted you to know, that I, too would be
walking this path

Even if I can not make your pain go away

No more quivering in my hand,
since our hands were torn apart

And still we walk this path, side by side

I have been whispering to all the trees along this road

And they to all the trees along every road

To hold your hand with a strength beyond mine

When you pass by

For I know you will make a stop by every tree on your way

the Catch

2011-05-11T01:42:00.000+02:00

A whisper

Merely loud enough to reach your ears

Like an eager traveler on the wind

and still, despite all disguises

It can not hide the scent of the wish you once made upon a shooting star.

Dreamers' Handbook

2011-04-21T16:31:00.002+02:00

The fear of suddenly realizing, that dreams are coming true;

The feelings of guilt to have neglected them for so long,

To have been such a lousy dreamer,

To have left most dreams undone, unfinished;

Either too lazy or too ignorant to dream them away,
to dream them up to the end,

The horror of having forgotten so many dreams,

To have abandoned so many others...

And thus the wish, to have taken 'Dreaming' more seriously,

Knowing that dreams were to be fulfilled;

Then dreaming way more daringly than ever before,

Dreaming dreams no one else would ever dream of,

Creating a whole new world of dreams,

Where there are no more lies,
no illusions any more and no fakes,

Only the biggest dreams kept safe in the depth of a beating heart.

Wild as the Beast We run into the Night...

2011-04-19T23:47:00.000+02:00

Never in my life heard so clearly what someone had to tell me...

And even when the wind takes your voice away to far off places,

your eyes are still loud enough.

Feb 27th inTehran, with Fever (39,6 °C)

2011-04-07T15:27:00.001+02:00

It came to you as simple as sipping your cup of midday coffee; something had changed, the world you lived in had changed and it would never again be the same.

You knew it, it occurred to you as you were sipping on your coffee yet the calm with which you finished your coffee and paid the bill was out of confusion rather than confidence. You knew that you would not go back to the world you knew, yet you had no idea of the world you were stepping into. You could not know what might have bestowed such change upon you and the world you lived in, neither could you have known what to do next. So you decided for the easiest: you simply followed old habits. Just like almost every other day you finished your coffee, paid for it, left the café and walked back to work, knowing that 'habit' would be a lost concept in a world where nothing was the same anymore.

The Two Ancient Myths

2011-02-10T15:55:00.005+01:00

I imagine security to be like a feast of the 'high society'. It begins at a precise time, everyone arrives and is greeted properly, there is dress code, a certain manner you are obliged to follow. You have a certain place at a predetermined table set for you - that is of course if you are invited at all - and it is also decided who sits next to you. The courses of the meal are the same for everyone, each to be served and finished at the same time. Even if you like one course way more than the rest, you never order for more and eventhough your shoes are killing you you still walk in them with elegance and grace. You never say what you want to, you do not do what you want to, you can only dance to the music chosen for you and you follow the steps. You smile and are friendly towards everyone. You drink but never get drunk.

And Peace, well peace is like a street festival. Everyone is invited, no one cares who you are, where you come from, why you are here, who is with you, when you come and when you go. There is music for every taste and food of every kind raise tempting smell in the air. It is loud like hell and people walk in any direction they want. You can dress as you like and dance as you wish. You can sing to the music, mosh or dance crazily and even if you just stand there, no one cares. The tech support is not the best and most of the time neither are the musicans. You can grab a beer and burp as loudly as you want. You can dance with a stranger or start a small talk with anyone, since no one is really disturbed by your presence. Nothing is in its right place because there are no places to begin with. There is no order in it, there is no certainty, it is crazy, it is messy and most of the time leaves a lot of trash on the street but every one goes home with a tickeling notion of happiness.

And I am sure, there'll always be enough volunteers for cleaning up the trash and getting the drunken back home.

The Wind

2011-02-01T21:32:00.006+01:00

The wind sounded much heavier that day, since it was loaded with a grave burden.  

Ever since that day, it has been carrying all the cries which were not to be heard; some out of fear, some of agony, some of pain and some of grief.  

There were cries for justice, cries for revenge, there were cries of rage and those which bore the sacred mark of freedom. All the silenced voices, all the dried up tears, all the congealed blood, the smell of sweat, the stench of the dead, it'll all be on the wind now.

And the wind sounds heavier than ever these days.

It is no longer refreshing neither feels good when caressing over the face; rather imposing a fierce pressure on the chest.

Until a heavier rain washes everything away...

Silent Scream

2011-01-26T20:25:00.000+01:00

Though I am not supposed to tell

I still have seen the longing in their eyes,

The hunger in their minds,

The passion, which keeps their cold hearts beating.

I know the taste of their fear,

I have smelled the agony weighing on their shoulders,

And the void of their losses in their chests I have heard.

One step, it is one single step you have to take;

And then reach out your hand,

stretch your arm as far as you can

And sing a bitter sweet song.

Before you know it, a hand will take yours,

a warm hand with invincible hope and immortal love in its palm;

An enchanting voice would start singing your song

And the pain would no longer be only yours to bear.

Timeline

2011-01-25T00:18:00.005+01:00

All the comings and goings of time

I thought I had understood them at last

I believed I had the perfect 'watch' over it

I thought there was a precise definition of minutes and seconds

Yet the years which have gone by mock me

I loose track of the months, I lose my days

Suddenly I am here, in front of you, waiting for your hands

Waiting for the hands which are no longer there

And yet they feel closer than ever

It feels as though nothing has ever changed

As if not a single day has passed

Suddenly all the battle scars start bleeding again,
the memories start to hurt
and I hear a cry of pain so close like nothing I have felt for a long time

And then I hear a song humming all around me

I feel warmth and I feel hope, I see tears and I taste blood

Suddenly, the flow of time makes no more sense

Cause you are here with me again
and our hands hold on to each other

once more

and forever

Watching onto the Falling Snow*

2010-12-04T14:33:00.006+01:00

There is rarely anything nearly as pleasant as the first winter snow.

The firm white cover masking every darkness every stain,

when everything turns into a unitary innocent white.

For a few hours, you can forget what lies beneath,

for several hours, you can forget every other color,

you can forget every other notion besides that of the joyful game of falling snowflakes.

For a couple of hours, or maybe just one, forget the world that lies beneath,

forget the streets, the houses, cars, people,

forget all which hasn't given in to the white!

Let your hands be taken over by the water magic,

let your mind be taken over by the caressing cold!

As long as the snow is intact, as long as the innocence is not stained,

jump into the magical game of heaven and earth,

just give in and take part with the same joy the snow flakes bring from up high!

Just as long as the snow is still white...

* from Treacherous Gods by Ensiferum

Memories

2010-11-13T04:33:00.002+01:00

I remember the song, singing of all the trees, which lent this land their shadow once

I remember the sparrows, telling the myth of spring to all the trees, paralized by the drought

I remember a gentle wind, singing tales of a free sky to the sparrows, lost in the long lasting gap between winter and spring

I even remeber your voice, humming every last bit of any lost dream in the wind, which you could find somewhere on the barren land

And Now Finally the 27!

2010-11-04T01:41:00.006+01:00

I still can not make up my mind, in which stage of life my mind dwells. A Child, as my Flute Maestro calls me 'the kid'? A young girl? Or maybe even a woman?

I never thought it felt so strange to be 27, eventhough it has always been a very special age for me, since my mom was 27 when I was born; I was the one to turn her into a Mother when she was 27 years old. I do not see it within me to become a mother, not yet. But lately I see a woman standing next to the child inside me sometimes, not a girl, but a young woman. She looks at me with the eyes of a woman, fully aware of all what such one person is. Then the child looks at her with widened eyes, trying to figure out what lies in her eyes, when this woman looks at it and smiles.

Sometimes the woman in me holds the Child's hand and then they take a walk together, sometimes they even play games, sing and shout loudly in joy. Sometimes she holds the child in her arms and sings to it, when it gets scared and sometimes the child wipes her tears with its sleeves, when she gets lonely. Sometimes she is chained down and sometimes she spreads her wings and flies. Sometimes she wipes the child's nose clean, when it is sick and hurt and sometimes the child covers her with a blanket, when she is exhausted and falls asleep. And when she is hurt, she and the child just stare at each other for a long time, without saying a single word.

And I still wonder what I am at 27.

All the Nodetian Insurgents

2010-11-03T15:01:00.003+01:00

Home is one of the words with the most beautiful sounds to it. It also bears a beautiful feeling, even to those who have never lived this feeling. Curious how my Home looked different from the usual image of this definition. The huge city, where I was born and grew up was a cruel place and the society I got to know had anything but tolerance for beings like me. I was 12 years old, when I found my home, the place where I happened to belong. It was a cruel battlefield from the start, us, trying to keep this 'Sacred Land' to ourselves, a small tiny restriction where we were allowed a little taste of freedom and where we had eachother to love and there was always 'them' who loathed everything we were, everything we wanted and all we stood for.

I was 21 when I realized how much they truely hated and feared us, when under their Watch I first came in touch with true love, with one of the most forbidden loves on this planet. To know that I would be watched like that, to know that I could never have anything for myself, as long as they have power over the place we lived in... I still don't know what made me angrier.

Now for a couple of years they started bringing down our walls, gaining power over our homes, taking our lives into their flithy hands, stained with our blood.

The first time I stepped into 'home' it was a half-finished building somewhere in North Tehran and I had no idea I was gonna laugh and love so much, while this building was built up into a fine research center with various labs and a fancy conference room. It must have become one of the proudest and happiest buildings in the 'Lili' Alley, for all the happiness, friendship, dreams, imagination and all the loud games we played there. A couple of days ago it was evacuated, the NODET headquarter, as one of the last signs of the arch enemy luring shamelessly in our home. I feel fierce rage, indescribable agony and unspeakable hatred.

After watching us, humiliating us, abusing us, imprisoning us, torturing us, threatening us, now they took our Nodetian home away... days like this I understand every line of this Song:

"Swords in their hands, they killed each and every man, who dared to invade their sacred land. Victory Songs are rising in the night, telling all of their undying strength and might."

A time to be the Nodetian Insurgent again...

*It might not be the best look but had to write this in Nodetian colors...

The Month of Mehr

2010-10-02T00:12:00.001+02:00

The spirits of the fall are here at last, my waiting has come due. Even though the trees are still green, the sun and the wind expose autumn, dwelling among us already.

My Simple Being.

2010-09-25T23:33:00.001+02:00

I am a very simple creature, I always feel cold, whenever I am tired or hungry. That is why I can not understand my cold skin lately, when I put myself to sleep in my lonely bed.

Memories - Extract III

2010-09-23T22:12:00.001+02:00

I could easily pretend like it all meant nothing at all. Keeping cool and indifferent is not that hard after all. You just need to tell yourself that it does not matter, you only have to say it pretty often and then one day you will not need to repeat it anymore. At the end of the day, you sit there, by the fire, staring at the flames, drinking your tea and the only thing real in your loneliness will be the sword. So as you see it is not really hard to see nothing but that sword, it is even easier to feel nothing but that sword of yours. During the day it is no effort to blend out every other sound except the clank of the very same sword. It can become a matter of survival at times, to fully acknowledge nothing except your own sword. But still the heart keeps playing its own games and it is not impossible for it to win over the mind. And when the heart wins, you remember. You can tell yourself that you do not care, you can tell yourself that they are mere fragments of your past, which is out of your reach now, still your heart makes you remember that you cared, that you were swinging your sword, perfectly aware of the pain inflicted, inflicted on them and on yourself, aware of the suffering.

Under the Lunar Spell

2010-09-16T20:47:00.002+02:00

Did I forget the cries of the night? ...Because the enchantments of the moon were too strong for my will to resist?
I surely did let it take me away, i just closed my eyes and gave in. You of all people should have known that I was never made to resist the moon, once the silvery light fell upon me. After all, you were the one going on about the essence I was born into, something about my element coming from the moon... that might say pretty much of me in the moonlight. You made it all sound so natural, so I guess you were probably expecting this to happen sooner or later.

What bothers me, is that I do not know weather or not I heard those cries rising up to the heavens in the moonlit night at all. I can not recall anything but the pure light filling up my insatiable eyes as well as my hungry heart. I watched the skies whirling around me and heard the winds chanting to the dancing flames, as I stood there enchanted, overwhelmed by a feeling of pure awe.

p.s. I might add something to this later

My Words

2010-09-02T18:36:00.005+02:00

A poet lives with his words,

He deforms and reforms all the worlds

and all the lives he touches;

I am no poet, I have never been.

Every night, at the simple sight of Moonlight

or even a cloudy Sky

All the words flee from my mind.

And in the morning,

at the sight of the first falling rays of dawn on earth,

clearing the night sky into a well locked vault,

the sunlight shines over the remaining words,

they turn to dust and fly away with the wind

blowing from south.

My words are mischievous children,

they never listen, never care, never do what is right.

They run away to distant plains,

where they can play and shout without any one watching over them.

They step all over wild flowers and disturb the flow of peaceful streams.

They chase the highest jumping grasshopper and the most colorful butterfly.

And late in the evening,

when the games they play all day long exhaust them to the bones,

they come back just to fall asleep under my bed.

Strange Dream

2010-09-01T16:18:00.005+02:00

It was on the beach, their eyes met accidentally. Even if it was just a split of a second, they both wondered what the other one was doing there and if the other was fine and happy. None of them looked back, none of them followed the other's movements. A bond is still a bond and one as strong can certainly not be broken easily. So some thoughts were shed, on both sides. Everything was so distant and vague, so much has changed in their worlds and the world had changes so much.

It was the last second, before the underground doors closed, he stepped out and made his decision. It was all over long time ago, none of them had a place in the other's life anymore, it was fine, but there was something he simply had to do...

So he ran after the elder one, who was now getting inside another train, with the long - now - blond hair waving behind him. he manages to jump inside, before the doors closed. Still he was in another wagon and cold not reach the elder one. That was why he had to follow him out of the station and through the alleys. The elder finally stopped in front of a well guarded building and running up the hill to reach before he vanished behind the big green door, he managed to read the word 'Prison' written big and shiny on the top of the building. Was he a prisoner or a guard, or maybe there just for a visit, was not to be told from the way the elder was waiting at the opening door.

Out of breath he finally reached the gate , right before it closed behind him, "Dad!", he cried out loud to catch his attention. As the elder one turned back and looked at him, with a cold expression on his face and questions in his eyes and as the cold expression seemed to be vanishing, now that the elder recognized the young man standing on the other side, he found the strength so say it at last, "No more thinking, dad. Now I finally know I am a unicorn."

So the dark green gate finally closed on his last word. It was such impossible relief for him to know that his old man had heard it from his mouth. Now he could go back home, where people awaited him with a smile.

Should you come by, Dietrich

2010-08-31T01:25:00.001+02:00

How many men are there still on earth who know how to dream like you did?

I don't know, how many of them can stand in front of me and still say 'No' instead of admiration

I don't know behind how many of those 'No'es then there would lie a far off dream

I wonder if any of them could say so much of 'me' in one simple 'No'

No to my childish dreams, to my carefree games, no to danger, to deception, to the temptation of careless wanderings...

I wonder, if one day I search all Land and look all over Time

Will there still be anyone with the craving you had for holding my hand?

Anyone who'd already know my scent from afar?

I wonder how many men still walk this earth,

with eyes which can see the ways yours did...

Why did none of them bear my eyes then?

Why then, none of them stands in front of me, even from behind the curtains?

Why can't I hear any of them neither laugh nor cry on the phone?

Why are all their tricks either lecherous or so deadly empty?

Why is their honesty so much falser than all your lies?

Why is their truth not keeping up with the illusion of you?

Why does time not affect you yet?

Why can't my rage fade the look in your eyes I never saw?

Why can't the tears I never cried and the cries I never shouted drop your far away hands down?

Still, when I secretly miss you and let our forbidden memories drag me away,

and when I think of all those days we weren't supposed to be, all that time you should not have existed,

and sometimes, when I am tempted to even forgive you like you asked me to, to even forgive you from the least explored depths of my heart;

When all my regrets decrease to only once calling your name,

and your voice echoes again in my head,

The voice calling my name, closer than any other man can make it sound,

Then I just forget the price demanded for being the woman in one of the most beautiful love stories on earth.

A Pair of Eyes and a Smile

2010-08-30T21:31:00.002+02:00

Tell, what would you do, if you were me?

No, not walking in my shoes, but if once - only once - you would see in me, what I have been seeing in you all this time; what would you do then? How would you keep silent and watch?

Or would you go wild again, like when you felt me seeing you for the first time?

Tell me, how would you bear knowing and not saying a word?

The thin Line

2010-08-14T14:55:00.001+02:00

There is a thin line between... all!

Thin lines are everywhere,

everything I see in only divided from everything else by thin lines,

so much I sometimes even fail to recognize

where I start and where I end.

But I know an incredibly thick line

separating my dreams from your hands,

made out of many many thin lines.

Lost

2010-08-10T22:16:00.000+02:00

I don't know who you are but I know very well that look of yours. I have lived with it longer than anyone can imagine. Peculiar, all what a mere human heart can achieve in the chaos of their cities.

I fail to see the distance, I fail to see the barriers, I fail to see the borders and I fail to comprehend that at this point, my best move will be to give up. Something in my hands pushes me forward, thrives me towards a most dangerous desire, which I have never known before. Something in my hands is getting stronger than all which hold my legs back from moving. When the time comes, should the hindrance not give in, I am afraid the only option would be to leave these legs behind. What would keep me going? I can not know yet. But I have put all my faith in my hands and when the time finally comes, I believe the answer would be of least importance...

I don't know what you are, but something within me can not help but to think it knows very well every bit of your existence, every ounce of your being. Something deep within me, where I can not reach, keeps clinging to an unhealthy urge.

Something on back weights heavy these days, much too heavy than any burden to be carried. When the day finally comes, only then I can make sure whether or not my suspicion has been right; that is, if I have been growing wings all this time...

Dresdner Heide

2010-08-04T21:54:00.005+02:00

Wenn Wiedergeburt ein realistischer Begriff sein soll, dann erst richtig hier, unter diesen Bäumen, zum 2. August jedes einzelnen Jahres, werde ich wieder geboren.

Was für einen Unterschied sollen 25 Jahre oder 6000km schaffen, wenn ich den Geruch der nassen Erde spüren darf, oder wenn die sanften Regentropfen von den frisch gewaschenen Blättern meine Haut herunter fließen? Erst wenn die Luft hier meine Nase füllt, mit dem leichten Geruch vom heiteren Baumrinde- und Blätterlaub, die großzügig diesen Boden bedecken, weiß ich Bescheid, dass ich lebe. Ich weiß dann Bescheid, dass die Antworte auf meine Existenz hier liegen, unter diesen Bäumen, die mich jedes Mal aufs neue willkommen zu heißen wissen.

Ich erinnere mich klar an ihre Stimmen, als ich das erste Mal hier war. Wer von uns allen beruhigter und getrösteter war darüber, dass ich endlich meinen Weg nach Hause gefunden hatte, wer von uns lauter und in größerer Euphorie gesungen hat oder wer wen schrecklicher vermisste, kann ich bis heute noch nicht sagen. Wie könnte ich überhaupt Stimmen vergessen, die mich all die ganzen Jahre zu sich riefen und deren Ruf ich heute noch deutlich hören kann? Stimmen, die mich in der Heide stets begleiten und schließlich Stimmen, vertrauter und bekannter als kaum eine andere...

So lasst mich wieder in die Heide, lasst mich zur Prießnitz, denn erst durch den sanften Fluss dieses Wassers kann ich gereinigt werden von allem Last und Schmutz der Menschenwelt, denn erst mitten drin, mit den beiden Menschenfüßen in ihrem sandigen Boden gesteckt, in der Strömung dieses Baches weiß ich Bescheid, dass das, was meine Hände fassen, existiert. Erst hier im Einklang mit der Gesamtheit dieses Waldes, erst in Berührung mit der Prießnitz wird es mir klar, dass ich geboren bin.

*Die Bilder habe ich im März aufgenommen, deswegen ist es noch nicht so grün und dicht, wie um die Jahreszeit.

Irony of Human World

2010-07-29T02:26:00.001+02:00

I know...

and this knowledge happens to be my greatest hindrance,

my severest handicap.

Old Friends (Extract #2?)

2010-07-22T23:20:00.006+02:00

"What is about old friends?", he heard the prisoner ask, "You keep going on about them over and over." It was true. Thinking of it, nothing had flamed up his rage as much as the thought all which had happened to his friends and his friendships. He took a better look at his prisoner, trying to find out if he had any old friends and how their friendship would be like. Did he really have so little idea to ask him such unforgivable question? How dared he? Did he not know anything of the sacred oath?
So he pictured him closely. His prisoner was a young man with strong features. He looked healthy and somehow provided with the essentials a man needs, here on the battlefield as well as at home. Yet nothing on his face indicated traces of happiness, neither recent ones nor any further back in time.

"Years go by", he started, now obviously trying not to think of the prisoner as his enemy, as the enemy to his dearest friends, but as a young fellow with little expectation of his own precious life, "and one day, in all amazement you look and see someone there, who knows so much about you it feels as though they wanted you to be like this. At first you want to fear them but just then you realize, that they have been there watching over you all through these years, right by your side."

Whispers from the other Side

2010-07-17T18:15:00.003+02:00

As I watched you grow, I tried to get used to the image of an invisible hand, patting you on the shoulder, every time you were on the verge of breaking into pieces. There was no other way that such a fine creature could manage to stand up again and again and again after having been torn apart so many times. It was hard, but I preferred to believe that something, someone was there for you, maybe because we were all too lazy, too scared, too drifted away to even think of standing up for you; for you, who was always there smiling at us, whenever we needed to look ahead, before moving on. Unspoken, we all needed you standing strong, we all wanted to know that the world could not collapse because there would be at least one being still keeping the pace, no matter what. I loved to watch your pace most specially. Was it a trigger, a dream, a drag or a feeling of safety? I was obsessed with the thought of someone, something else wanting to keep you on the move, to believe that your pace was not only important to us, that we were all a part of something greater.

Still, when the time finally came, after my eyes - now well used to watching you - could work out a clear capture, when my ears did manage to hear the words, I could not believe what was there... or maybe I did not want believe.

There it was, right by your side, when you were about to give in, when you were undeniably worn out and a tiny step before losing it. I saw your eyes loosing their light, I saw your lips letting out a sigh heavy as steel, I saw your limbs starting to shake under the burden and there I saw the hand on your worn out shoulders. "I am still here", were the exact words. It was unmistakably LIFE, whispering, "and I definitely can not stop."

Intoxication

2010-07-11T23:57:00.003+02:00

One day I will pick the last grape from the vine;

So shall I press the strongest wine for the feast I will throw,

Where all the world shall drink.

So will they sing and dance all through the night.

And right before the sunrise,

Let this drunkenness do its magic,

Let the spell be completed,

As we give in and fall in love.

Sehnsucht

2010-07-04T16:57:00.003+02:00

Immer wenn meine Pflanzen an mir sterben oder wenn es ihnen grundlos schlecht geht, merke ich, dass ich es wieder unterdrück haben musste. Als Erste machen sie sich Sorgen und zeigen es mir auch deutlich, wenn etwas nicht stimmt. Irgendwie sind die Faser dieses Leibes doch diesem Gewächs näher als jedem Fleisch und die, die den Raum und Luft mit mir teilen, sie teilen auch irgendwann die Gefühle. Ob ich es wharhaben möchte oder nicht, für sie ist es zu klar.

Ich aber idiot, ich verstehe die Gefühle doch meist nicht, auch seien es die meinigen.

Nach langem Nachdenken kann ich es endlich einsehen: mich packt die Sehnsucht, größer als je. Die bitterssüße Sehnsucht nach so vielem, was ich hinterher gelassen habe, was mir weggenommen wurde, wovon ich zeitlich getrennt bin aber auch nach dem, was ich nicht kennen durfte.

Die Sehnsucht nach dir wird langsam unerträglich. Ich will es nicht zugeben, ich will es nicht gespürt haben, ich will diese flammende Sehnsucht nicht wahrnehmen. Die Sehnsucht nach all deinen unausgesprochenen Wörtern, die ich an jenem Abend laut und deutlich gehört habe, nach den magischen Händen, die kein göttlicher Bildhauer aus den edelsten Steinen zu schneiden weiß, die Sehnsucht nach den wilden Augen, die keinen menschlichen Tag auf dieser Erde mitgesehen haben, nach dem Gesang, der das wildeste Bestier herlocken und zähmen kann, nach einem Lächeln, das der Klang aller Sterne stillt und nach einem unwiderstehlichen Geruch... heiliger Platanus dein Geruch, der kann allen Sinn rauben und umdrehen. Und dann immer wieder der Klang deiner Stimme, sowohl sie deine Kehle reitend auf Schallwellen verlässt als auch wenn sie still in deiner Kehle bleibt....

Nothing but to count

2010-06-24T17:10:00.001+02:00

I don't know why it speeds such,

my heart.

I still fail to understand what it desires to approach.

I feel every time, how eager it beats,

as if it is about to jump out of my chest every second.

But what for? What is it after? 

What does this hasty heart wish for?

Some piece of News

2010-06-23T09:57:00.001+02:00

During the past week I started a new novel in about 10 years and so it might prevent me from posting here as often as I desire, esp. with the exams coming up and my new part time at the AIP.

As a treat and maybe some compensation ;), here are my first words:

"One moment there were various sorts of nasty feelings sucking all her insides into a burning void and the next she realized a physical pain unlike any she might have known before. Her body was definitely receiving whole new signals or at least had developed a new system of interpretation; a crazy roller coaster ride for her nervous system and definitely not the exciting livelihood kind, but the throwing up, ending up in the emergency room somewhere in an unpleasant clinic type."

Off Limits

2010-06-20T21:14:00.000+02:00

Such sin it was, every bit my lips tasted

Eternally forbidden to know the joys

And yet so eager to feel every ounce of the notion

I hungered for it so much

That I could even taste it through my lips

Long before my tongue finally came in touch with it

It was not pleasure, I was craving for it

As if my life... no, my existence depended on it

Sin or crime, blasphemy or simply rudeness,

I know no more, I care no more

For I carry the sense with me now

I have felt them, kissed and tasted them

I have not sipped but drank them whole

I crossed borders that were not to be approached by mortals

For mortal I am indeed, of my own choice

That the "narrow and brutal path" may never scare me

And so I took it all on me

And my punishment, for merrily dreaming

That I shall not forget

And above all not forget

That I can never have what I tasted, what I touched so dearly...

Ein Jahr Grün

2010-06-12T21:32:00.003+02:00

Ich sehe sie immer an solchen Tagen.

30 Jahre langer Versuch, kein Iraner zu sein;

alles Andere außer Iraner.

Und dann plötzlich, jetzt plötzlich versuchen sie,

die manche sogar ohne einen Iran aufgewachsen sind,

Iraner zu werden,

jetzt wollen sie es,

weil Iranersein plötzlich eine andere Bedeutung hat.

Jetzt heißt es anders,

wenn unsere grüne Erscheinung sich auffällig macht.

Jetzt wollen sie Persisch können,

wollen sie es verstehen,

die Farben dieses traurigen Landes.

Ihr Anschein ist es, der die Frage in meinem Kopf unterstricht:

"Was heißt es eigentlich?"

Ich weiß es immer weniger,

den Sinn, die Bedeutung hinter meinem Pass.

Es gibt so viele Verknüpfungen,

die mich am Ende nur fesseln

und dann irre ich nur hilflos umher.

Es mag vieles heißen,

es kann vieles bedeuten,

dazu gehören auch bestimmt ganz viele Farben;

aber Iranersein heißt vor allem,

an solchen Tagen ein Stück eigenen Herzens aufzugeben,

es sich loszureißen zu fühlen,

dieses aufgerissene, blutende, schmerzende Herz dann

in der Brust zu tragen.

Es heißt vielleicht dann,

Stimmen aufzuheben,

die sich nicht einig sind

und die bestimmt nicht einig werden,

die aber alle einen verstummten Schmerzschrei kennen,

die alle schon mal eine Liebe verloren haben;

Stimmen, die sich mal in der absoluten Stille

von einem Geliebten trennen mussten.

Blogscross!

2010-06-06T16:04:00.000+02:00

I could not help but notice that I write here mostly stuff on my mind because of Iran and in my Persian blog mostly concerning Germany!

Unnamed Impressions

2010-06-05T17:29:00.005+02:00

A blast;
and two eyes trying to take in as much surprise
as a pair of eyes ever can.

Did I swear to find back your happiness?
For there is so little I can remember.
I recall however,
your mad attempts to venture
what was long diverted.
You were drowning in your own rage
and my eyes could not but to stare in amazement.
Up to the very moment – I swear –
I did not even know that I could startle.
It was the most silent storm I ever heard approach.

I never realized the scent of blood,
of freshly spilled congealing blood,
to be so distinct in the blowing wind;
not up to that very moment.
It felt as if someone was challenging
my senses.
I saw things I did not realize anymore,
I heard what I never wanted to hear,
I felt notions far beyond my imagination.
Maybe this was weakness, desperation
or could have been pain.
It burnt its way
deep down inside me,
a trail
not to be wiped off my existence.

Unnamed

2010-05-20T00:29:00.000+02:00

It was all about the moon caressing your long curly hair;

the hesitation of the saltiest teardrop

before saying farewell to your eye,

explaining pretty well the trace it left behind.

Every rose bush saw the wind heading your way,

when the insanity of the summer heath took over the allies

and left a thick layer of dust on all the afternoon hours.

Was it the wind,

was it the moon

or maybe the desperate night sky?

Which was the first to notice?

A footstep was sure to be held guilty for treason,

a single innocent footstep

and somewhere along the way,

the sinful scent of rose petals teasing with the wind;

and if not that, then surly every blushing butterfly

flying by.

There was far too much to give you out.

So everyone stood there watching,

shocked,

amazed,

astonished

and definitely numb.

As the brutal rays of sunlight reflected from the blade

everyone knew there was no turning back.

What harsher punishment, than to stand in perfect silence

and be aware that watching is all one is going to accomplish...

Berries

2010-05-18T11:19:00.001+02:00

There is always something with the taste of berries. They always have to taste so different from other fruits; tiny, mostly reddish, juicy, sour-sweet, sprinkling, joyous and always just not enough, right when you believe you finally got a hang of the taste they are done, over. They tend to make the impression of being something special, drops of another world left in our, something off limits. It does not really matter whether or not you are aware of their brazen wickedness, they win in the end since there is no way you can stand the temptation and keep away from them. And then, as if the mark of your sin, your weakness is about to stain you for all eternity, they persistently leave their traces on you: all over you. A couple of berries and already you would have a colored tongue, lips, cloths, teeth, fingers, maybe even cheeks and oh yes eyes! No matter how solid your efforts to hide the secret, the sparkles in your eyes will give you out: you have had berries and you have most probably licked your sticky fingers because there was no way you would have let go of the last residues of the magical taste.

Could not spare my Blog the whole Enska Madness

2010-05-10T03:14:00.003+02:00

The first time I really had to do with metalheads was with my band back home. It was fine but then again everything is different there, there is the shadow following you every way you turn. The guys were also all studying in the same university as I did, a technical university of high reputation, so it was somehow out of question for them to be totally ignorant of everything else but music. Yet our ways parted after our show, since each of us did truly have a different path to follow and so I did not get to hang out with them for much longer.

It was here in Germany that I first got into the whole 'metal' society, although my metal friends right now are quite well spread over the world. They know very well I am not one of them, I praise the music or a good deal of it, I share the same believes with lots of them, mostly to a certain extent, I blend in quite well and yet I am never really a metalhead, of my own choice of course.

If there was one thing I sure learned fast, was the price to pay for being different, for not following the mass, for wanting to think for myself and for choosing something other than most people's choice. I also learned that I did not liked prepared packages, that I preferred packing my burden of life, the luggage for this 'longest journey of them all' on my own. I love shoving in anything that catches my eye, not caring if it goes well with the rest, it keeps my curiosity satisfied, I also learned that if I only like the pants from a suit, there is no need to tag the jacket along as well.

All this happens to be one reason I happen to get along with metal people so well... but it also exactly what what appears to be the problem: a prepared package.

I also had learned to care all my life, I had to care, there was so much going on around me that if I was supposed to crawl back to my corner simply nagging about how stupid people are and how shitty the world is, I would have turned out to be a person I would not have really wanted to either know nor befriend myself. Caring and engagement has always been there in my life. I grew up among people who cared and who were always trying out various possibilities to make a difference and I admired them for their efforts. Sometimes it is hard for me to face the fact that some people do not really care to engage themselves in anything but music, no matter what kind... I do not look down upon, but it hurts much, especially if they are people I tend to like. It hurts to know that some people could be so unsatisfied and yet care so little about this planet.

And every now and then days like these happen, days on which hell seems to be breaking loose in the land, where I grew up and where my dearest people are still living. These are days, on which I lose track of life, I cease to understand the world and words such as 'people' or 'humans' wake all different sorts of emotions inside my aching heart and pounding head. The worst is that I know it is not only happening on these days, I knew that what I get to hear on such days is merely a selection of tiny fragments of a continuous procedure. I know that executions are only a point in unjust detentions, I know that arrests are just a starting point of tortures, I know that riots are only one day from years of unjust and aggression of human rights...

On such days Enska happens and suddenly something starts to make sense again.

Ensiferum is not about politics, the guys try to stay clear from any direct political statement, which makes it so convenient and pleasant and yet...

I fail to point it out precisely but when one just looks at them, even if it is a random recorded video of a live show, the difference is still obviously there. It is on such days, when all becomes incoherent that Enska holds the world together, that Mahi, Sami and Pete are there to keep me company, to remind me of my world, of my dreams and of how much I worship life. I look at them and I see friends, I see people of an essence too familiar to me, I see real people. Part of the reason is well known to me and part of it just makes me wonder and makes me wonder even more with time and after each encounter.

It feels like each time I pick up my sword Sami is there to smile at me with a bright look in his eyes, each time I sharpen the blade Mahi is watching to inspect whether or not I am doing right and as I yield it, Peteluu seems to be nodding while laughing at Sami.

It is on days like this that friends make me feel not alone and Enska comes to make sense in the crazy human world.

Morning Dew

2010-05-09T16:26:00.003+02:00

It keeps screaming in your head, it goes on and on until at some point you fail to see an end to it. As much as you do not want to believe it, as much as your heart yearns for something indicating that it should only be a lie, you still have to give in, you know it is true. You are not shocked anymore, it does not even surprise you and you know that this might even be the worst part...

“Don't let them become names! Please just do not freaking let them be solely names on a long never ending list!”, as it cries out loud in your head and it keeps screaming. All the loud screams, the cries, the hollering, the tears you do not manage to shed make you numb. Something really heavy spins in your skull and you start to feel it mashing your brains, as the load on your chest gets heavier.

Just don't let them become nothing but names!

Red was her Favorite

2010-05-08T19:34:00.003+02:00

When was the last time that time was the one healing wounds?

I believed I would be fine,

assumed that years were gonna make it better,

make it at least easier

that the pain would become old and dusty.

I did not wish for comfort,

did not wish for peace neither did I wish to forget,

I just hoped to handle it better.

I thought I might as well grow up a little bit more,

see more of the world and more of what there is to life,

that I would have numerous experiences to carry with me,

happy and sad, good and bad, for it did not matter much;

it was all life, it was just supposed to be there,

the whole new life experience.

I did.

Life has thrown one surprise party for me,

I got to see and live more than expected,

I have been on my path for a while now,

I have seen many new smiles and held so many hands.

Time has taken the business of passing by seriously.

And yet...

Just when I believed to have finally worked it out,

when I thought I have gone far enough to be able to handle it,

it strikes me once again.

I gave in to sobs, which have never felt so suitable before.

I felt desperate, I felt useless, I felt pathetic;

facing the fact that I might never be able to handle it,

that I might just never in my life work it over,

the fact of having lost you.

I do not think it will ever be ok,

it will definitely never be fine.

When was the last time when time was supposed to be healing wounds?

And for once more, the irony of life slapping the fact to my face,

on the day you were given life to rather than the day you were strapped off of it...

Happy Birthday Ana!

Your Unicorns

2010-05-06T21:51:00.000+02:00

You believed in unicorns. It was no effort seeing it glow in your eyes.

You also believed in cotton candy providing you with magic powers, as seriously. If I go on thinking, I can remember a whole series of every little thing you believed in, like that should one day a indigo butterfly sit on your nose, it can turn you to one, too. I guess most people around you just got used to you. Some believed you were joking, some believed you were cute and childish like that and some believed you were nuts. I merely remember how I felt at first. It was weird, that one for sure but it was also unique, the sincerity of your voice and your eyes, that was what made the whole difference. You never tried hard o convince anyone, it was sufficient that you knew what you believed in, to you, they were truly facts. That was what I liked most. When there was a butterfly flying around at your first glance you said "I wonder if it is an indigo." the same way that most people lined up in front of a news stand would remark that the line is always longer on Thursdays, even you said both with the same ton in your voice. The same way you would doubt and question your beliefs, like anyone might take the time to doubt and question facts they had known. It did make great difference.

Somehow you picked it quite quickly that I confronted you differently. I even saw how you looked at me with appreciation a several times.

I heard you. I heard you every time you talked... and I thought. I thought about your words, about you, the passion and the honesty you left behind your words. I looked at you, when you were silent. I wanted to see if your eyes changed, if there maybe came another look and took the 'easy' you away. It did not and yet you did not look that easy when you were silent. You looked concerned, you looked distant and somehow mysterious. Sometimes it made me think that I knew not a thing about you, for I could not even nearly guess what you were thinking about. It all disappeared the moment you directly looked at someone or started talking... at first I thought that it disappeared, then I saw it again. It was there but dimmed or like in a shadow of the other presence. It felt like something inside you was constantly screaming or singing to keep you safe.

Safe from what?

I still hear you, no matter where or how far you are, even though I might never know where you are. And I still think about everything you said and you believed. I still wonder which could be true and which could only apply to you.

May 1st on my Streets

2010-05-01T20:45:00.001+02:00

I know a place, where every chest bears an untold 1001 nights, in tears, in blood.

I know that place far too well,

I know exactly how and where those stories are hiding

I know the silenced voice to tell each of them

I know the heavy load on each chest

I know a place, where people sleep at night at the sound of their loudest nightmares

I have known it for long

Starting right after my birth.

Time, Think, Time!

2010-04-27T00:07:00.007+02:00

I should have most probably given it more time, but I knew I was losing it again. Any longer delay and I would not have been able to hold it together. It was one of those moments when with a rash one actually feels the sands of time sieving away through the fingers and the tighter you try to make your grasp onto them, the less space you leave at the palm of your hand for the remaining grains. So I concentrated on the sand and got into action.

It was a frozen look... or a freezing look, I do not remember. All I know is that something froze... and someone along with it. I preferred to say that something left and took my someone with it but nothing was moved, nothing was taken away, it was all there, frozen, right in front of my hands, trying to defeat the sands of time.

Gasp!

Yes I had to gasp for more air just to realize hug rough it felt, with the sand filling up my lungs. I could not help but imagine the sandish brown on my perfectly pink lungs, covering up, sticking, not letting go, piling up and blocking every whole, from which oxygen might have escaped into my blood. I tried to cough, tried to cough really hard which did not want to help. At a point I solely felt sorry for my pretty lungs.

And I heard it again in the wind. Someone was singing in the wind. It was like a breeze of hope, like a message that things will not stay the same. I did not care which way the course of time would take them, as long as I knew change was on the way. I even got to the point of believing it was time itself singing in the wind.

The time kept singing and I stopped to care.

At the Mercy of Frost

2010-04-22T14:14:00.002+02:00

It is a new madness

knocking our door this time

hasty, passionate and with an indescribable rage.

None of us needed a glance at the other

for its rage was far more familiar

than any other tune echoing inside these walls;

yet it was a brilliant new madness.

When the frozen tear touched the wound on your hand

it was the prettiest snowflake my eyes had even known

yet our minds had wandered off on a too long a path

to turn that mesmerizing beauty into anything

but a cold moment of relief on the dashing red on your hand.

The roads lost their destinations to the storm.

Our footsteps started disappearing

and the winds...

The winds they stole away every song we had ever sung,

as they had already taken away the song of every tree on our path.

It was the new madness

not letting the wounds on your hands heal

knocking eagerly on a door it most certainly did not intend to open

and walls resonating to its vicious knocks

brick for brick, column for column.

Words started to flee from in between the bricks.

Every intention behind every thought sought shelter at the serenity of oblivion.

The dazzling look in your eyes gave in to the resonance,

when I wished upon...

It did not matter.

I just wished upon.

I wished.

It was the moment I realized I still had the will to make a wish.

I finally heard every single knock on the rotten door;

It was a whole new madness.

Darksky

2010-04-20T15:19:00.004+02:00

It took decades before I finally learned to listen to the silent of the night;

All the unspoken wisdom of universes crawling over the velvet black upon me.

Only at the darkness of the nightsky my eyes finally captured the dim light of the faraway shooting star;

leaving a brightest thin red line behind,

just as the star was burning out in front of my now shimmering eyes.

Even when the star had died away, the trail still remained on the intact black for an instant,

like a pathway to all my long forgotten dreams.

for my heart to bear no more doubt;

In the silence of a pure darkness.

A Call

2010-04-16T16:30:00.002+02:00

Sunlight trying eagerly to reach down to a lonely earth left beneath confused trees trapped among skyscrapers or shall it be a chilly breeze at a moment you least expected it. It is always like the effect of green painting all over gray when you suddenly discover a tiny plant trying to overcome the hard of the asphalt and responding to spring right in front of where you stepped with your left foot.

Always a Call of one sort or another...

Or maybe it is the moment to realize that the call can no longer be ignored?

Then it is hesitation, volunteering to be the first one jumping to conclusions. It is the fear of decision taking over and the wish, not to have heard the call. Memories and dreams are next in the line, along with confusion, self confidence, determination, expectations and then again hesitation.

One single moment of silence

helplessness...

The one moment

to realize the pain, the justification of all fear, the empty prints of loving hands and loved glances on a narrow path leading to a destination yet to be determined.

It is the very same moment to know that the Call will always be there, one only for you.

Mirror

2010-04-03T17:01:00.003+02:00

A quick glance in the mirror and I knew I looked extraordinarily beautiful today. I wonder if it has anything to do with the dreams I had last night. I dreamt of some men I have had before, of some I wanted to have and of a man I will never have. I still wonder if such dreams make a woman appear so shining and pretty. Maybe it were not the dreams I had at night, but rather the dreams that I have, the dreams I always bear in my head and in my chest, the whole world I always keep dreaming of, maybe I have been allowed inside and came back here, and traces were left on my face or maybe on my reflection in the mirror, or even on my eyes, over my gaze upon the fragments of light leaving the glass surface in such a rush just to reach my dark eyes in time.

I definitely looked beautiful this morning.

Fingers

2010-04-01T23:15:00.004+02:00

Your fingertips, they said it all, there was no need for my words.
At first I though some strangers were floating in the air and it took me ages to realize that they were solely ‘looks’ having gained a purpose beyond our conscious.
Still your fingertips were touching them, caressing them gently and delightfully playing with them. Looks from my eyes and from yours, hovering in the space left between us; in a space we left wide open as our hands separated, as the everlasting moment gained distance; the moment when I knew you were and you knew that I stood there watching you.
You left fingerprints all over the magic surrounding the moment and the magic that anxiously held on to our hands; you left fingerprints on the looks in our eyes, for I was still far too scared to dare any direct contact. Such a fool I was back then not to recognize your fingerprints already all over my eyes!

Legend of the Two Stars

2010-03-28T21:42:00.002+02:00

Once upon a time ago legends were told of two undying stars, shining the brightest when all others hid beneath a cloak of dark clouds, stars of a color never known to mortal eyes before. People kept looking for them every time the cloudy sky left no room for any others. Some even managed to observe them once or twice; or at least believed they did. Then legends became stories, stories faded to random tales, from which mere whispers remained and they perished with the next strong wind blowing from the south. So that all what actually was left for people, were distant memories no one know weather or not to believe.

Guiding stars still shine upon the night sky, some dimmer, some bright as they used to be. Travelers arrive soundly at their destination and explorers still discover new worlds. The sky maps have not changed, every order follows as it used to. Calculations have not been missed, roads still lead on and paths cross land and sea. Even should no one be able to tell though, something has changed; somehow, the world is not lit by the same light. Something feels different, as some souls come to wonder, souls with distant memories of brighter and warmer times.

That those two stars were not meant to guide, they were not leading anyone anywhere, they were not supposed to help choose a way out of many, neither to judge a chosen path.
It was their company, which never faded away on any chosen path. They were to watch over, a light not to fade whenever all went blur and dark.
They were ‘friendship‘.

Dipol

2010-03-26T00:31:00.004+01:00

With every turn, every winter losing it to spring,
The enthusiasm in every seed,
The question is heard in the intention of each raindrop,
Of ‘how big a chance a lonely hand from afar stands for growth’.

The roots have long grown into every rock and stone;
The winds are well trusted messengers of lost farewells;
And the waves are supposed to bring back distant memories

and to wash salt off the tears.

Relativity of time and space all over,
As the minute white root of the fragile seed reaches deeper,
And the shiny green leaves ever higher to the skies.

Watching over seeds nesting in the fertile earth,
The answer definitely lies in your eyes.
It is the look you bear in them,
Every time you remember those hands,
Now known to be parted from yours.

Equinox

2010-03-21T23:44:00.003+01:00

Along with the wind, across the meadows and on the well paved streets,

As long as we keep chattering with the sparrows, blooming with the tulips,

Should we flow in the narrow streams,

And if we do not forget to stop and listen to the trees,

We should be well aware that spring is a wondrously delicate concept;

The question appearing into every conscious mind.

Swords in their hands, they killed each and every man, who dared to invade their Sacred Land.

2010-03-16T13:04:00.006+01:00

Something unexpected happened on Friday (March 12th):
Time did suddenly turn back like 10 years and I was somehow back home, some of my dearest friends were up there on the stage, we were together, we were having fun, we were happy, we were all singing together and we believed they were no less than godly on that very day. You always appear like gods to everyone else when you are in Farzanegan (my home), up on stage, about 17 and when it is THAT time of your life, after not having had a decent sleep for days, being up all night with others, putting THE show together, when only the strange feeling keeps you going on and then you are finally there, on that very famous stage, not knowing how or when the time finally came; you say all you have to say, sing all the old songs, true to the traditions and then before you know it is time for the one last song, it is time for the wheel of time to make one more turn and this time at your hands. You should take responsibility and be well aware of the heritage you are leaving for the next generations but at that moment, when suddenly everyone is up on the stage and holds hands to demonstrate a bond never broken, all you need to do is to be yourself.

If it had been a majestic feeling, when hundreds of people were singing the songs together, it is still nothing to be compared to the moment, when the last song is sung and every one who is not on the stage is looking up to you, absorbing every note and every word with probably tears swirling up in their eyes. What made those moments epic, were the truthful hearts which believed in every word they sang, were the hands lovingly holding on to each other.

Ten years ago, I was down there in the crowd, watching and idolizing my friends - nine years ago I was up there myself - and I was almost the only one to sing along with them on their special moment, for I was the only one allowed to hear their song before they first sang it to every one else.
On Friday, I was back there again; thousands of kilometers away, standing right next to another stage, watching other friends, maybe holding no one’s hand but still singing each and every song along with them and with hundreds of others, feeling home: safe, trusted, loved. Again I felt those moments, when there is no more distance between the stage and every one else, when it feels as if all are standing there, supporting each other. On Friday, too, songs about home, about battles, about being free and about protecting this precious home were sung. I held my crest up high with great pride, fierce rage and deep agony, for the home we are trying to save for next generations, for our songs that will echo for ever: Songs of Victory, since we promised, years ago, on that stage as well as in front of it, that our hands will hold on to each other and that in our songs, we will live on eternally.

_________________________________________________
It is not everyday that you can both be at a musically marvelous event and get all the ravishing feelings alltogether.... Enska, simply but not simple: Enska !

The Secret

2010-02-18T18:01:00.001+01:00

It was easy to hide it; from everyone, from you, especially from you since you have been so absolutely sure to definitely find out anything I might ever intend to hide from you.

The only tough part was not hiding it from myself. The obligatory presence of various thoughts on it in my mind all the time was about to drive me mad several times. As it gradually became a casual and ordinarily permanent matter for everyone else, feeling it when I was around, it consumed far too much of my energy. Yet I knew it was the only way of keeping it well hidden from all including you: making a habit out of it.

You just needed to feel it more frequently than expected; more often encounters, seeing the secret burning in my eyes every time you looked and you would just assume it being no matter of importance. You got used to it sooner than I thought you could and lost all interest in looking longer, in digging deeper. It was by far not the easiest but the safest way to make sure you would not suspect, that you would not find out I was indeed hiding something from you.

It required great concentration but in the end, I managed to keep away from you the one thing you wanted most:
    before your eyes and
    out of your reach;
                           all these years.

Waiting

2010-02-14T16:24:00.003+01:00

You can see him there, standing, waiting. He never gets his eyes off the road and no one even knows what or whom he has been awaiting. Should you go talk to him, he will impossibly tell you of his business there, at the road. Yet it is not to be ignored, you can see the waiting clearly written all over his face, in his dark eyes.
You would better take some water with you for that is what he demands most; he never seems to really quench his thirst. The road has all his attention to itself. He never misses an event, even no pedestrian or a driver for that matter. Should he want to, he can provide you with correct and precise answer on every meaningless detail.

Do not forget water!
I guess it is just the essence of every road…

Happy Birthday

2010-02-09T14:10:00.004+01:00

For my birthday, I got a marvelous mask.
The prettiest colors I have ever seen shine

all along the finest and most enchanting lines,

Drawn on the most fragrant piece of wood I have ever known.
It is a one-of-a-kind piece of art;
Telling the most haunting stories, I have ever heard.

It was my birthday,

a day on which all my names take on the most special meaning.

My present was a true masterpiece of utterly eligible craftsmen,

the irresistibly tempting mask;

but only almost.

Penalty

2010-02-06T19:02:00.003+01:00

I saw.

Seeing has been my most severe punishment over the years,

Ever since I first saw;

So I have been seeing all along.

Closing my eyes as I may

Makes the images clearer;

Even tears should not dim my sight

As my pupils give in to light.

I saw,

As I see today.

The pain grows,

with the images gaining sharpness.

I reconsider the temptation of giving up my eyes;

every once in a while...

Guilty!

2010-02-06T02:05:00.003+01:00

Witness to the birth of your hands,

As you picked up your first pencil with tiny fingers;

Your eyes came into life

With your first dreams;

But your unforgivable sin was

the rush of blood through your veins,

After you first sipped on a wine of purest red.

The growing love in your now beating heart

was what has been petrifying them to such insanity

all along.

Etwas weniger Kurzes

2010-02-03T15:58:00.000+01:00

Stumme Schreie ähneln stumpfen Messern;

Sie schneiden vielleicht nicht immer tief durch,

dafür aber viel schmerzvoller.

Sie wissen gar zu gut,

warum sie sich nicht ans Licht bringen sollen.

Etwas ganz Kurzes

2010-02-03T01:11:00.000+01:00

Ein kleiner Augenblick der Verzögerung

Und deine Augen meinten schon ganz laut

Dass meine Wörter deinen Ohren nicht gehören

Your Gravestone

2010-01-31T04:58:00.002+01:00

Let us say for a tiny moment, that you gave up being a dreamer,
That you would never dream again;

But what happened to your dreams?

All those precious fragments of you,

kept safe for ages underneath your ribs;

Somewhere out of every stranger’s reach.

What did your hands do to them?
What about the sky you once set eyes upon?

Has its color already faded away?

Does the wind’s humming sound no longer inviting as it used to be?
When did the sparrow’s flight give up temptation?

Was it maybe the car that parked in front of your door?

Claiming Them Back

2010-01-30T17:11:00.008+01:00

And they all left me,
Blown away by the wrath of a summer breeze,
My finest and dearest of people;
Their tears dripping down my cheeks,
Their smile shining on my lips.

Remember their hopes of salvation,
Their thoughts of a consecration,
Their dreams of redemption,
Their wishes for a blessing!

The winter chill cools down my open wounds

bleeding their blood;

a most brilliant and majestic red,

As my lonesome footprints on the snow testify for this butchery;
Of how unthankful gods slaughter their loyal and faithful believers,
Blinded at their deceptive treachery.

The battle drums still rumble their sincere hopes and dreams in my head;
Withered at the hands of their gods.
The horns still echo their last farewell
And the disappointment at their last breath projecting in their eyes;
The desperation of having given their all

To a void and vain nothing.

The Groove

2010-01-30T15:24:00.000+01:00

Nothing but the hills claim that horizon. One moment it is all green and light and the next, everything turns gloomy, misty and grey in front of your eyes; precisely unlike everything else you have ever known. There are less than six trees in your sight; nevertheless, you will never get to count them. Whilst arrived, you should better forget all the logic and reason, which burdens you from this world. Forget the life you are living here and give in!

You gaze upon the cloudy sky, the snow falls on your warm cheeks, you stare at the clouds and the sunshine blindfolds you; unable to take your eyes off it, until you believe to see every single ray of light. Something keeps whispering, singing and chanting that “You’re almost there!”, you feel the urge to cross the distance and finally get ‘there’ without ever knowing where ‘there’ is.

Fearless

2010-01-20T19:49:00.003+01:00

Fear was not a new word but a strong one for that matter. Even avoiding it was nothing to compare with all the other words he had ever heard, read, known or thought of. Fear was there ever since the very first day of life, even all the moments there had been no reason for it, the word was still present to emphasize fear itself not being there, like a very important lack, missing, and a void of disturbance or in his case an essence. Yes, fear was truly his essence, which was why he had to keep his head clear of it. The slightest trace of fear in his mind could have been much more effective than greater amounts in others’. His soul was cleansed out of it once in a while through various rituals. Sometimes he just wondered how this - for him - forbidden fear was, sometimes he feared feeling it inside him without recognizing it. What if?

Extract #1

2010-01-10T22:34:00.002+01:00

- You are a funny guy.
- So, funny you say; that’s new.
- Well it’s not like you are making jokes all the time.
- Guess I don’t.
- No, it’s really different… you do not make jokes all the time, do not pull pranks, do not say funny stuff or… well just…
- I do not seem all that fun.
- Just being around you… lifts up the spirit, makes taking things easier.
- Does it?
- I can tell for sure it does.
- Shall I consider that a compliment?
- I… don’t really know. Just needed to make sure you knew I get the energy you are sending off.
- Well “thanks” in that case; for letting me know.

Touching the Unicorns

2009-12-24T04:26:00.008+01:00

Everyone has heard of them, everyone at least believes to know how they look like and where they are most likely to be spotted and all who have ever heard of them also know the catch:

Most people may never even come close to one, let alone touch a unicorn.

Unicorns can easily come close to people; can reach to most with no significant effort, since it is their nature to care and to heal, mostly neutralizing poisons sickening the soul. Yet, they do not feel safe being touched by people, why a great number of them choose another form to appear to mankind - that of a horse or of a maiden being specifically popular, in order to keep all inevitable human touches on the surface, on the outer layer, over their “disguise“.

Contrary to the common belief, unicorns possess no weakness for virgin maidens, meaning neither all virgin maids may even approach a unicorn nor are those who can solely to be found amongst them, the rumour might as well reflect the common belief of ‘innocence’ of virgin maidens.

In fact, something else is required to touch a unicorn.

Only those who have kept some level of the innocence of their first years of life, those who still see the world with eyes open to wonders, to beauty and open to miracles, those who have kept their inner child alive, active and healthy, those who are still curious to learn and to embrace life with great passion, only they can approach a unicorn; but even all that has not proven sufficient to touch it.

What does is actually unknown even to the unicorns. One intriguing soul might befriend a unicorn for years, get as close as can be and yet never be allowed to lay a finger on the magical creature whilst another crosses paths with it simply passing by, suddenly comes closer with no hesitation and touches, pats or even caresses it as if it were the most natural thing in the whole world to do. Some support the hypothesis of such people being guardians of the unicorns or of all magical beings but even this goes no further than remaining a hypothetical consideration for not all potential guardians meet their destiny, at least not consciously.

What happens is that the (chosen) one sees the unicorn - not even needing to know what it really is - and feels like approaching the being, he feels the attraction, the warmth of it presence, feels safe, at ease, feels the unicorn's attention and appreciates the friendly reception he receives. He then touches the unicorn with no hesitation, without the question of permission even appearing to his mind. He does it, because it just feels natural to him and right to do, because above all it just feels good.
The unicorn for its share sees “the one” already from a longer distance and suddenly feels the longing for this particular person by its side, wishes to be seen by him without any disguise, counts every single step he takes while pacing its direction and when he finally stands there right next to the unicorn, it feels a lot safer all of a sudden - thus the guardian hypothesis. It can even feel his fingertips before any actual physical contact is made, wishes that nothing should stop those fingers on their way, wishes for them not to hesitate, wishes that nothing would change his mind. Should thousand people stand watching, this will nevertheless remain a private moment for the two of them; a moment they will always cherish, even if they do not know why; a moment that always ends too soon for them, even if they do not realize what made it so memorable and unique.

What some people simply ‘can’ and do has been a question for long and there has been no explanation yet, no real answers.

This article is strictly non fiction and dedicated to the magnificient human, whom I witnessed touch and even heal a unicorn and who also appears to be the mightiest Guradian I could have ever imagined walking the earth. We will definitely talk about this one day, my dear friend, maybe when the four of us take that walk...
Nähdään, minun ystäväni!

Algebrenlogik

2009-12-14T15:39:00.000+01:00

Nichts durchdenken;
Einmal rufen;
Zweimal anlächeln;
Dreimal zuwinken;
Viermal im Schlaf wälzen und kein Auge zu machen;
Fünfmal laut singen;
Sechsmal hastig zum Bus rennen, obwohl man Zeit hat;
Siebenmal etwas im Schaufenster anstarren, was man selber nicht will;
Achtmal zu dem Telefon greifen;
Neunmal mit einem klaren Blick hinschauen;
Unendlich fest umarmen,
Und vergessen, dass die Algebra der Freundschaft
Längst zur Logik widersprüchlich geworden ist.

Argh...

2009-12-01T22:22:00.001+01:00

Keyboard does my fingers no good, I need paper, lot's of paper... the monitor just blocks my words, steals my thoughts from me...

Turn Around*

2009-11-15T23:07:00.004+01:00

It was the absolute reign of silence, which started singing at your doorstep

The moment my voice was banned from your memories

Frost was suddenly a curse, cast upon every warm drop of blood

Flowing inside beating hearts

No more the refreshing chilly breeze to cool down the wounds

Spring was a dream of melting white snow, of refilled streams and of growth

Summer was the distant thought of fertility

Fall seemed more like a legend of fulfillment and blessing

And winter was nothing more than tales of tranquility

For your silence had casted all the seasons away

Leaving the eternal void out of every sentiment and perception

Bound to linger at your door, I wait here

For you to stop dreaming of yourself, to awaken

And to start living you instead.

______________________________________________

* Could also be considered as some 'Chronicles of Courage XII', but not necessarily.

...

2009-11-11T15:15:00.005+01:00

It blew from the south
The chilly breeze of the early morning reaching our streets and our windows
Having already traveled over all the lands
Shivering or trembling we all heard the teeth clattering
Was it of the wind or did we hear silent screams in the wind?

I remember the roses losing their dashing colors to the wind
Then the pale petals fell one after another as they listened to its stories
Stories of daisies falling to the spells of axes
Lilies plagued by chainsaw
Of roots being burnt to ashes
And of contaminated springs and rivers

In the early morning, when most of us were still fast asleep
The breeze then spoke the prophecy of the wall
Of one so mighty and so high to capture every wind and to stop every storm
The fearful words passed through every brick and every stone
A thick dark fog shaded our windows, turning the sunlight away from every room

I sit here, reaching out for your cold hand, which I find no more
And the only warmth I feel upon my heart is the chanting of the mice
“Beware that one day
A forest will grow
The birds will nest
And the wind will blow.”

Interlude

2009-11-11T13:47:00.001+01:00

Two recent events, happening within a few day, left me no more room for silence, one was the 'Neda Agha-Soltan' Scholarship of the Queen's College in England and the other one the execution of 'Ehsan Fattahian' this morning.Why is the world so obsessed with dead heros and ignores the very living ones? Since over a month a petition was set up to rescue Ehsan from death, not enough signatures were there to save him, not enough for Mr. Ban Ki Moon. As if it weren't obvious that this young man was not guilty, as if millions have to shout for him to hear and as if these millions were waiting for his death to make another pretty frame for the new idol on their walls. I tried so hard to keep silent, I tried so hard to write of my love and of life, to avoid direct statements but I can not. It is no more just the green movement, it is no more only politics, it is people I cannot understand, it is the same old story, the one bringing Nodetians together, the one from which we needed to protect ourselves. Why do people hate living heros in front of their eyes so much, while they write stories, make film and sing songs about the dead ones? Why do people find geniouses so repelling while they love to talk about all what they achieve? Why?

Secrets of the Night

2009-11-09T23:21:00.004+01:00

My heart plays tricks on me
Evil tricks to overcome my hasty mind
A mind believing to have overcome the heart
A heart stronger than the mind could ever believe

My heart plays all the tricks on me,
I have feared while trying to predict every micro feeling
So I completed my system of all equations
Every dependency and independency taken into account
Every curve and every line put in the right order
Every coefficient and quotient calculated
And every slope already balanced

And yet, my heart plays tricks on me
In the night, when the lights go out
When the equations are no more seen
When my calculations fall to hands of fatigue
My heart starts pulling the strings
And I fall hopelessly

Chronicles of Courage XI

2009-11-08T18:59:00.005+01:00

Tu ne sauras jamais…
No, you would never know
Know of the woman, who spent some of her best days
Living with you
Every moment, everyday, waking up smiling at you
And going to sleep while staring at your sleeping face
You would never either know of your life together or of her
For you spent all the time, sleeping under the thickest blanket

You could never know
How she caressed your short hair,
How she stared at the closed eyelids,
How she stayed at your bedside, making sure you were safe and warm
Or how she treasured your hands
Hands that never intended to reach out to her

She never saw your eyes
She never heard your voice
She never had your arms around her
She never told you of herself
Even the slightest trace of her time by your side
Would be wiped long before you are awaken

Yet her magic will grant you a sound sleep
Sealed with the kiss she left before leaving.
Sweet dreams, my love, sweet dreams!

Prayer

2009-10-28T23:49:00.008+01:00

There was left no deity for me

To appreciate my hands

When I knelt at his altar

To cry out his creation

But beware that some day

Every tree on this land will bloom my dreams

Even should the earth of this land be my eternal resting place

On that day

Beware, that a hopeless wanderer should then be sheltered

Know, that the roots would find depth inside me

Know, that every autumn my song will accompany the wind all along the streets

And beware that immortality will quench its thirst
From the stream flowing off the closest spring

__________________________________________

Translated from Persian, that's why it sounds not that fluent.

An Instant a Day

2009-10-27T18:05:00.000+01:00

I wonder since when did people stop looking at each other
Everyday, in their cities, on their streets
They look at the empty seats in the train
Look at the queues in the mall
Stare at their cell phone displays
They see the headlines of the papers
Look for the best cafés
They watch their favorite actors on the screen
Look up private matters in magazines
Look at the cars accelerating on the highway
Go through with their bills at the supermarket
And it makes me wonder
I wonder
Just if they took a brief moment
To look at the pair of eyes
From beneath which the other one in front of them sees the world
What miracles would come to pass

Unbenannt

2009-10-19T20:52:00.001+02:00

Der Frost zieht über uns, Liebster.
Dein Geschrei schallt immer noch durch diese Gänge;
Auf ihren Straßen;
An unseren Fenstern;
Unter den Bäumen,
Die ihren Herbst dir schenken, für jeden Schritt,
Den du machst.

Und wir leisten uns einzig runde Tränen,
Die in den eisigen Boden ihrer Straßen sickern
Zur Begleitung auf deinem langen Weg;
Der Frost zieht über uns, Liebster.

Ahmad Schamlou - öffentliche Liebe

2009-10-18T15:54:00.007+02:00

Ich wollte heute ein Stück von mir posten, aber da ich seit Tagen dieses Gedicht nicht aus dem Kopf kriege, musste es einfach sein. Ein Stück davon habe ich letztes Jahr im November hier veröffentlicht, jetzt habe ich versucht, den Rest des Gedichtes zu übersetzen. Es handelt sich um eins der vielen Meisterwerke eines der bedeutendsten Männer der persischsprachigen Literatur; eine seit 10 Jahren stille Stimme der Welt.

Zu empfehlen ist es natürlich, während des Lesen den Dichter selber zu hören, auf Persisch natürlich. Neben seinen Gedichten, Verfassungen, Übersetzungen und Forschungen, ist Schamlou einer der besten Vorleser, den ich je gehört habe.

Träne ist ein Geheimnis;
Lächeln ist ein Geheimnis;
Liebe ist ein Geheimnis;

Die Träne in jener Nacht, war das Lächeln meiner Liebe.

Ich bin keine Geschichte, die du erzählen kannst;
Bin kein Lied, das du singen kannst;
Bin kein Klang, den du hören kannst;
Oder etwas, sodass du es sehen,
Oder etwas, sodass du es wissen...

Ich bin das gemeinsame Leid,
Schrei mich auf!

Der Baum spricht mit dem Wald,
Das Gras mit der Wiese,
Der Stern mit der Galaxis,
Und ich spreche mit dir.

Sag mir deinen Namen,
Gib mir deine Hand!
Sag mir, was du auf dem Herzen hast,
Gib mir dein Herz!
Ich habe deine Wurzeln begriffen;
Mit deinen Lippen vor allen Lippen gesprochen;
Und deine Hände sind mit meinen Händen vertraut.

In der hellen Stille habe ich mit dir geweint,
Für die Lebendigen.
Und in dem dunklen Friedhof habe ich mit dir gesungen,
Die schönsten Lieder;
Weil die Toten von diesem Jahr,
Die Verliebtesten unter den Lebendigen gewesen sind.

Gib mir deine Hand;
Deine Hände sind mit mir vertraut.
Oh du spät gefundene(r ), dich spreche ich an;
Wie die Wolke den Sturm,
Wie das Gras die Wiese,
Wie der Regen das Meer,
Wie der Vogel den Frühling,
Wie der Baum den Wald anspricht.

Weil ich deine Wurzeln begriffen habe;
Weil meine Stimme,
Deiner Stimme vertraut ist.

Legends of the Fall*

2009-10-08T17:03:00.001+02:00

It has always been of a blessing to me to be born almost in the middle of Autumn, for it has truly been the most joyous season for me. It is the only time of the year when I actually enjoy being exposed to sunlight, which is no more so sharply teasing. I feel reborn during the first rainfall (even should it have rained all summer long), hear the wind humming songs in my ears, jump among the fallen leaves and just can't help collecting: nuts, leaves, stones, branches or anything indicating the most magical season of 'Fall'.

Every year, at this time, I become a little child again (not that I prove of having come to age the rest of the year!), I can't stop staring at trees who suddenly look so irresistibly good, I jump into water holes filled by the generous rain, try to catch the wind in my hair, walk in the fallen leaves, always giving them a kick to watch them fall the few centimeters back to the ground, collect colorful leaves and go chasing chestnuts; no, I'll never get enough of them! Each new one will always be a temptation, regardless of a backpack full of them on my back. Every year, I do totally give in to the magic of fall, thoroughly enchanted every time.

So I had my first date with autumn yesterday, I went on autumn-chanting at 'neues Palais' again, until I fell asleep under one of its magnificent chestnut trees and just imagine my joy, as the first real autumn-rain fell today.

_______________________________________________

* I like using titles of songs and films, they always bring nice associations with them.

** This is a photo to love, for every single detail on it is something I dearly love, even the pants I am wearing are my favorites or the color of my hair is at its best variation or even the buttons on my beloved backpack...

Chronicles of Courage X

2009-09-21T04:25:00.008+02:00

Als die Zahnräder des Schicksal einen kurzen Halt machten,
Ein entschuldigtes Stolpern, bevor sie weiter zu drehen anfingen;
Doch ausreichend für eine Begegnung, Kreuzung zweier Wegen,
Stand ich vor dir und kein Umhang wollte meinen ausgetrockneten Leib umhüllen.
So saugte ich jedes Tröpfchen, jede Zelle, jedes schwingenden Teilchen deines Seins,
Bevor der Augenblick vorbei zog und die Himmeln eine neue Entscheidung trafen.
Mein Körper war schneller als wir beide, ein Weg zurück blieb mir nicht mehr;
In mir trug ich schon die Gedanken, die mir nicht mehr gehörten.
Geschwängert hatten sie meine weibliche Existenz,
Geschwängert hast du mich;
In dem Moment, als der Fluss deines Seins jene Frau befruchtete,
Deren Schicksal und deren Existenz einst alleine mir gehören durften.
Ich sitze in einem leeren Zimmer mit einer grünen Topfpflanze auf dem Schoss.
Die Schwangerschaft tropft in Tränen aus meinen Augen;
Unvorsichtig schwängert sie durch die Tränen die Luft,
Die spielerisch durchs Fenster wieder den Weg zu jenen Himmeln findet,
Die meine Fruchtbarkeit vorbestimmt haben.
Auch den Himmeln ist es nicht möglich, diese Last zu bergen.
Ich sitze noch mit dem Grüntopf auf meinem Schoss,
Während sie meine Schwangerschaft tagelang regnen,
Bis die ganze Erde davon befruchtet ist.
Mit kleinen, zarten, grünen Blättern wächst nun meine Liebe überall vom Boden.
Der spielerische Wind füllt das Zimmer mit dem Geruch vom neuen Gewächs
Und der Sessel am Fenster bleibt schrecklich leer.

Chronicles of Courage IX

2009-09-19T17:31:00.001+02:00

You look at me and sinking in them

I see how the look in your eyes diverges further from me

Whilst you are still in front of me

I feel the turning of your shoulders

As your presence tends to leave my side

My eyes seek desperately your hands

For the longing in my cold hands penetrates through my arms

Yet yours find a way into your pockets and hide themselves there

A smile, which is no longer on your lipps

A voice, which doesn't say anything to me anymore

It drags my soul deep into the void

The emptiness that your presence suddenly leaves here.

Brüche aus einem Traum...

2009-09-17T16:29:00.005+02:00

Der Ausbruch eines Krieges in seiner Stadt. Sie spürte es von Hunderten Kilometern Entfernung, noch bevor es vollgebracht wurde, denn als Kriegskind hatte sie ein feineres Gespür dafür. So verließ sie das zu Hause und machte sich zu ihm auf. Mochte sie nicht willkommen sein, mochte er sie nicht hören wollen, sie musste zu ihm. Ihr war die wahre Bedeutung eines Krieges und seiner Folgen zu gut bekannt, um zusehen zu können, wie sie auf ihrem Geliebten zustießen. Als sie in die Stadt ankam war es aber soweit, das Chaos war schon im Zentrum ausgebrochen, Leute rannten hin und her, niemand wusste aber richtig, was los war, niemand konnte sagen, was jetzt zukommen wurde. Ihr war jedoch das alles kein bisschen neu. Sie lief ihren Weg durch die mit Menschen überfüllten Straßen zu dem Hügel. Da war es noch ruhig, er hatte bestimmt bis jetzt nicht geahnt, was los war. Dann kamen sie endlich, die kleinen, schwarzen Bomben lagen überall auf Bürgersteig und auf Pflasterstein der Straßen. Man wusste nicht, ob sie vom Himmel fielen oder ob sie vom Boden wuchsen. Jede von ihnen brauchte nur eine Minute, um zu sprengen und um sein Schicksal zu vollziehen. Hastig die Bomben um sich mit den dünnen Armen so weit wie möglich werfend, schaffte sie sich den Weg weiter zu dem Hügel, weiter zu ihm, der immer noch nichts ahnen konnte. Die Menschen auf den Straßen verloren langsam die Kontrolle über eigene Nerven und wurden jeden Moment verwirrter, ängstlicher, lauter, gefährlicher. Sie aber konzentrierter sich auf ihn, sie musste ihn finden und mit ihm über die Berge weg fliehen, bevor es zu spät wurde und wenn schon, wenn es dann soweit war, wurde sie da sein, bei ihm. Sie wurde ihre Ängste, ihre Trauer, ihre Erinnerungen alle überwinden und ihn anlächeln können.

Es war dann, als sie ihr bei einem Umweg durch ein großes Krankenhaus aufgefallen sind, alle Männer vom gewaltigen Körper und mit einem besonderen Blick in den Augen. Sie hielten etwas wie ein bestimmtes Armband in der Hand. Niemandem anderen schienen sie aufgefallen zu sein, sie jedoch hatte diese bemerkt. Sie war wahrhaftig ein Kind des Krieges, sie kannte solche Blicke, sie kannte die List des Krieges, das alles hatte sie schon mal durch gemacht. Was diese Männer mit den Armbänden vorhatten, konnte sie nicht sagen, dass diese eigentlich digitale Fernbedienungen war blieb ihr aber nicht unbewusst. Was sie damit bedienen bzw. kontrollieren wollten, konnte sie nicht sagen, wollte sich auch nicht weiter damit beschäftigen. Einen Krieg verhindern konnte sie nicht, noch die Katastrophe, die bald hier ausbrechen wurde, ihn aus dieser Sache heil raus zu bringen konnte sie aber vielleicht noch. Egal wie wichtig die Geschehen um ihr waren, führte ihr Herz sie zu dem Hügel, in dessen Tal er ein zu Hause hatte. Ihre Beine kannten plötzlich weder Schmerz noch Müdigkeit. Mit einem der Männer in einem Fahrstuhl gefangen, schloss sie die Augen und dachte nur an ihn, einzig und allein an ihn. Es ist doch wahr, dass man meint, Frauen würden anders aussehen, wenn sie verliebt sind, dass ihr Antlitz wie Heilige strahlt, wenn sie an den einen Mann denken. So sah der Mann im Fahrstuhl sie an und sogar in der Situation wurde ihm sofort bewusst, woran sie dachte. Sie war sicher, dass der Mann mit dem metallenen Armband in der Hand auch wichtigeres zu tun hatte, als nachzuprüfen, ob die kleine Frau neben ihm was von dem Wesen des Armbands ahnte. So lief sie wieder ihren Weg zur freien Luft der Straßen. Unterwegs schrie sie einfach zu ein paar Polizisten, dass sie die Männer in Acht nehmen mussten. Doch bleiben konnte sie nicht, so rannte sie einfach weiter und trat sich die kleinen, schwarzen Bomben, die nun wie Regen vom Himmel fielen, aus dem Weg. Einer der Männer war nun hinter ihr her. Er lief immer schneller und ihre Lungen brannten mit jedem Atemzug immer mehr. Eine Polizistin verfolgte nun den Mann hinter ihr. Der Abstand zwischen ihr und dem Mann wurde trotzdem immer weniger.

Große Angst hatte sie nun, aber nicht vor dem Mann, denn er hatte keine Stelle in ihren Gleichungen, sie fürchtete sich davor, ihren Geliebten nicht rechtzeitig erreichen zu können. Sie musste zu ihm, um jeden Preis und das nicht nur weil sie seine Ferne nicht mehr dulden konnte, sondern weil sie ihn nicht dem Krieg überlassen konnte. Ein Krieg durfte ihn ihr nicht wegnehmen, auch wenn sie hier nicht willkommen war. Sie war verdammt nah daran, jetzt konnte sie den kleinen Hügel deutlich sehen und der gewaltige Mann war so nah, dass sie sein Atmen hinter sich hörte. Die Lippen presste sie so stark aufeinander, bis sie blass wurden. Sie musste zu ihm, bevor dieser Krieg ihn erwischte. Sie musste auf jeden Fall zu ihm, der in diesem Moment nichts ahnend sich zu Hause einen leckeren Tee goss.
Ein stummer Schrei drückte alle Luft von ihrem Hals aus. Sie musste zu ihm.