that summer of 2022 i sold a few small canvases that i had painted in the manner of baselitz: soul-searching colours and upside down dreams - i felt no joy - there was no rain for two months in june and july - fires consumed forests and moors in several parts of our region - villages were almost burned -  firemen were exhausted some went mad and started more fires themselves they were drunk on danger and heat - nobody counted the animals birds and other creatures who died in the fire only human lives counted - war had been ravaging ukraine for several months so probably not even those - millions of people fled their homes and sought shelter in other parts of europe - they had left with children, suitcases and their dogs, cats, rabbits, birds, guinea pigs - the covid pandemic slowed down - yet poisons continued to pour into rivers and seas and toxic fumes to rise in the air - the end of the world pressed its gaunt face to every window but they all turned a blind eye - that summer my dog died - she just lied down one morning on the kitchen floor and stopped breathing - i didn’t even have time to hold her in my arms - i dug her grave in the garden under the white camellia tree i carried her stiff and heavy body - had a last look at her glassy eyes  i couldn’t cry there was just a mute scream like a broken bone in my chest i couldn’t sleep for weeks i couldn’t go out for walks because all the roads were still marked with the traces of her steps and i didn’t want to cover them with my loneliness i just stood by her grave and stared at the black earth every morning - one day she came to me again as a white crow on a roof top - i had never seen a white crow before so i knew it must be a sign from her - i even took a photo of the bird but couldn’t understand what it meant - perhaps life was waving a white flag at me -  no more struggle - be still - keep silent - it won’t be long.

about my victories they said:

it was a lucky strike.

about my failures they said:

this is your true worth.

my family. my friends. my enemies.

where are they now

to measure my freedom

with their bitter instruments?

morning dew like honey on a thin slice of silence - a pause in the story;

you’re wondering whether too much was said and the cup may overflow. 

close your eyes, take a sip from the refreshing brew,

enjoy the absence.

the garden changes colours as summer fades away: 

frail petals, sweet on the wind’s tongue - 

they expect the arrival of a new orchestra of foliages and whispering trees -

evanescent music for the days of self-forgetting; 

a new beginning seems so obvious here, at the end of the world: 

its asymmetric pattern grows like ivy around the old (overwritten) story; 

no more borders between memory and dreams: 

just a river of smoke and dead flowers rushing towards the forgiving ocean; 

the seagulls’s screams make you no longer feel besieged, bereft, beset;

be brave! chin up! in no time you’ll be gift-wrapped for the stars.