Crawling crawling in the grooves,
Distant distant distant hooves,
Creeping creeping creeping blight,
Silent silent silent night.

Shiv’ring branches, mould beneath,
Sabre whispers out of sheath,
Muffled thumping, wheezing breath;
Silent silent silent death.


Hilt of the Hardened Heart

As stars

forever punched

in lightless sky,

My ashen love

for you

can’t further die.

I draw my sword.

In broken mirrors clad,

I’ll slay the night

to hide the stars


The Open Color of His Eyes

I sauntered past; I had a farthing.
He sat alone.  I asked him why.
He said: ‘Today I’ve eaten nothing.
‘I obviously plan to die.’

I cried: ‘But death is so sinister!
‘Let’s go and eat! It’s me who’ll buy.’
He smiled and died that very instant.
A rainbow darted to the sky.

Why Do People Have Memories?

It’s a late summer evening, I’m getting myself a bit of hot water for a tea.  The sterile cooker fire is silently hissing, flashing its placid limbs from under the bottom of the kettle.  Soon the water starts bubble-whispering; I extinguish the fire and pour myself a cup of steaming liquid.

It’s late summer evening, and I’m drinking my tea to the light of the robotic eyes of the street lamps beyond the window.  I really can’t understand why I still think it’s evening; my clock insists that midnight is around the ten-minute corner, and drowsiness is rising in soft forms from the distance of the hallway veiled in deep shadow.   Yet, I don’t believe I can sense the purring shagginess of the night; no, the night has an entirely different smell.

It’s late summer evening; will you please be silent, clock.

The tea is far from being refreshing; after that prolonged working day that I’ve had, it only seems to contribute to the campfire of my memories, to which my consciousness is getting lulled.  Ghostly steam rises from somewhere between my palms; rises, rises, caresses my face, caresses my thoughts.  The slight aroma waltzes with the intricate weaving of ideas, glides across the endless plains strewn with souvenirs.

In the grim facets of street light, I realise that the plains of memories never end.

Why do people have memories?  I find it really hard to grasp right now, with the intimate hearth of tea so near that it spreads its warmth directly through my body.  The clock is ticking uglily; time scratches its way through the toothful gears;  I shiver.

Why do people have memories?  Oh sure, I couldn’t do almost anything without one; no qualified work, no old friends, no talks of the times of yore hours on end.  But don’t try to buy me with all this stuff; I’m not lured.  Qualified work?  A chore.  Long talks?  Waste of time.  Old friends?  Friendship sparkles off in an instant; long-term relationship is an ornament on the walls of the temple which gets erected within the narrow time-frame of now.

No, having a memory for all of these is not worth it, it isn’t.  As faces become recognisable in the dark, hate starts.  I hate you, memory!  I hate you with every tiniest morsel of my spirit!  People, who have once sat about this table with me, float around.  I vaguely remark that my cup is already cold, as I battle the onslaught.  People, who I met once, unimportant people, come first.  Then comes she, who was the she of my life, whose face I will always recognise.   I can hear her smile, I can sense that at the tips of my fingers.  She smiles, her hair falls in lung rusty waves upon her graceful shoulders, as she sits there, across the table, looking at me, smiling, smiling.  Her hand lies extended on the table, white marbly fingers, black fingernails blacker than the dark.  Her silhouette is clearly outlined, her beauty shining wavefully, marblily, shadowily.

The face, the face that I will always recognise; that face is painfully close, the face I haven’t seen in ages.  I freeze.  The face which was the most different face on the earth, the face of my light, bears no more features.  I can retrace none, no, nothing!  Oh, you, poor memory!  No features left, emptiness!  The excruciatingly dead silhouette on the background of the window, the orphan withered shadow of a hand on the tablecloth, this is all you left me!..

Across the sea of emptiness spilling out of my colden cup, the clock strikes its glassy strings.  Faces dwindle; street lamps look my windows in the eye; sharp light crosses the kitchen in ghastly tatters.  My tea is gone; gone is its warmth.  Sensing the autumnal depart of everything, my consciousness demands a leave for herself.  In the eternal hiatus of the arriving night, I let her go.

Summer night has arrived.   Summer night.

Stories for Baby Dragons

I am here with some mundane personal purpose.  I come from a mountain village of dragon shepherds and yeah, I know how to grow a dragon from its very birth to maturity, when the beast is ready to survey the borders of country, the order in the villages, and the overall happiness of the people.

Yet, having this knowledge isn’t a bright piece of something when you come from a village where the cries of baby dragons can be heard  from every yard; I’m yet very young and there’s a lot of things in my head which want an order and place small diadems of experience upon them.  Well, I’ll tell you that those things want the gadgets pretty badly, so badly in fact that I had to listen to the advice of my best friend.  “Go write your stories on the leaves”, he told me.  “That’s going to help you focus on your own thoughts and arrange them properly, so that instead of logical chains they become logical wings”, he told me.  “Heh”, thought I and went away to look for an appropriate pen.

Oh, sorry, will you wait for a while?

I beg your pardon; Whinie’s whining again.  Not that it bothers me too much, they all do when they’re kids, but she’s whining in a different tonality today, so I think I’ll have to leave with her for a couple days.  Hope that’s going to make her better.

And so, I’ve found my pen.  It looks nice, the pen, I’d say.  It’s silver, scaly, and there’s a fork at its top.  Its point is of a gently transparent blue, flickering a little when I touch the leaves of the trees with it.  I think such pens aren’t usually made by gnomes living in neighbouring villages, but I may be mistaken.

O leaves, I hope my humble writings upon you will fringe your green faces with some minor jewelry which you will not find repelling.  And he who is reading, well, heh, I hope stories which baby dragons find captivant, won’t be of too much boredom to you either.