THE WAY WE PLAYED WITH OUR LATE GRANNY

With our late granny,
strange and cruel games we used to play,
and now, I know-
It was such a weird way.

We used to put her on the balcony, close the door,
watch her behind the glass and shout:
-Come on prisoner,
try to escape,
come on granny!
Then we gave her a little bread, and water
sticked out a hand with plate.
She looked at us with her faded eyes
delighted she could do something
to make us children feel masters
and be part of our game.

We were even happier when
she completely accepted our game
pretending to be a real prisoner
who longs for visits and wishes to escape
we relished our illusion of power
being as bad as all good children are.

It seems like you like my games with granny
as I am the one closed on the balcony now
but I am not given to understand your reasons
and I don't want your piece of bread
your charity bestowed upon me
as I resent your sparse visits.

It seems I was better as a prison-keeper,wasn't I?

With late granny we played
very, ver cruel games
wrongly believing we could taste
the flavor of real life that way.
We used to take her to the mire in the backyard
put a rod across the puddle and tease her:
-Come on, granny, try to cross over
it must be you can do it!
And poor she... tried and tried,
without any sign of fear,
shadow like, thin and weak
walking on her tiptoes.

Only now and then did she look at us,
flickering smile on her face
because she was a part of our game
and she understood the pace.

With my late granny
everything was easier, than with me, isn't it?

You don't have to build a terrace in myself
I already have my own
and I am already closed there
it would be very absurd
to close someone already closed
in his soul, mind of illusions.

With my late granny was easy,
as rules were very clear,
sides exactly defined.
Everything was logic even and evil.
But now, I am unable to see
which my side is
and what is my part in this cast
as I don't know whether I dig a well
so as to reach water
or, living all my life in the underground
I dig a shaft
so as to reach air
because it is quite same
and it is exactly the same way
and there are no opposite sides
so, please, you swallow up your bread
and don't  wait for me by the mire.
just leave me alone and let me see
victim and executioner meet
in my life, in me.

AFTER THE EARTH WAS TO BE

On the Twelfth day after the Earth was to be,
the Almighty assigned everyone a key.
The pilgrims came, ready to reconcile
silent, quiet, calm and tame-
but you stole the keys to my smile.

A Fortnight after the Earth was to be
the Almighty to everyone a sin assign
to be a lifelong mistress was mine
destined to cherish the moments divine.

Four weeks after the Earth was to be
the Almighty assigned curses and tears
My doom was never to be
the mistress to the man with my key.

A Season after the Earth was to be
the Almighty assigned departures- days and ways
mine was to die- after a long try
to find anyone having a picklock.

DAPHNE FROM THE WALLET

I still don't know whose daughter Daphne is
and yet-
everything makes me believe she is your sister's
I don't think you are  a man who could renounce his own child
but, to be sincere,
not that kind to hold pictures in the wallet either.

I still don't know whose daughter Daphne is,
but I don't ask myself anymore.
...and yet...:
I wonder-who is her mother?

Sticking to some stupid way of mine
I still stand in that Vienna lane
where you kissed me for the first time.
Because of some weird deal with myself
I still wait for you at the end of Zieglergasse
behind the cafe where we had our first applebeer
and where you told me that your ex wife was also "libra"
and that you know how obstinate, we, libras, are.

Sticking  to my own stupid way
I remained in that car forever
where I saw Daphne's picture for the first time:
blond, long-haired, ten-year old girl
deep-sea glanced at me from the picture.

My dear, sweet Daphne,
can you, somewhere in your nursery school,
imagine that your picture broke my heart
and your image possessed my mind
Your face  from your "uncle's" wallet
and your smile from your "uncle's" wallet
bring back all the precious details.
"Daphne's picture in the wallet"
You were born to name the poem
while  I was born for pain and strain of old Russian novels
(a lot of lemon with a bit of sugar)
But instead of being  Nastasja Filipovna
I am much closer to duke Mishkin
and  doomed to become an idiot
still waiting for you to appear
and have our secret apllebeer
in the old  "Mozart" cafe.

I still don't know whose daughter Daphne is
maybe SHE has created HERSELF
and dwelled herself into your wallet
to torture my dreams and embitter my memories.

I still don't know whose daughter Daphne is
And yet...
I seem not to  care what the truth is any more...
In some weird way she is my company,
as my spirit lingers there
ever-waiting for you at the corner
where you kissed me for the first time.

But...
 I still wonder- who is her mother?