Here comes the rain again.

Do you really want to hurt me?

I can’t tell you why.

That’s the way everybody wants to rule the world.

What a wonderful world.

Fly me to the moon.

Grandfather’s clock 

moving this masquerade time after time 

without you.

I can’t go for that Tequila Sunrise.

Fragile night birds drive carnival long long time.

Take my breath away.

Shout,  Luka.

Every breath you take.

Sweet dreams are made of this fantasy.

Wonderful tonight.

Love me tender,  true dreams.

The rose.

Just the way you are.


Honesty …..  wait for me.

You are the sunshine.

Feelings …..  stand by me.

The tide is high.

Moon river

You’ve got a friend close to you.

When you wish upon a star,

imagine the sound of silence,

unchained melody 

calling you.


(Collage : Song titles——from the book of repertoire)


On Board


“Now your turn.”

The geometric pattern

sprung from the bottom of one’s memory.

Its presence is walking out without walking

wearing the air.

By the way don’t forget to keep the corner.

A world without expression.

Fragile as glass.

School of whirlpools flowing.

There is something to remember here.

Why is it stuck?

This horse is my horse.

Then the change in the melody I felt.

“Where are you playing tonight?”

“At the Oxygen 

 just around the corner.

In a secret corner of my heart

and of your heart.

See you there.”

Which universe are you wandering around.

The view from the outside coincides with the view from the inside.

It was shining through the tunnel like a lighthouse in ocean.

A lot of things were remembered.

Recognizing the role of the rock

it was built by so called special stones

and kept its own secret within.

And the Bishop went for a walk diagonally.

Of course.

The stone will revive.

The rock will survive.

Quietly coming from behind 

is the familiar Knight.

and it’s about to jump over.

This is a world where expressions and dignity appear.

Synonyms on board.


The Sign

It happened twice          because of the sign

in front of the rose garden       there it was there it is


started with a couple of sentences      even if they weren’t remembered

written in the language           you have heard before

or have you    

when you wiggled         they giggled

and followed the traces of a deer


the grasshopper     wither on the vine

beneath your fingertips       there always is a wormhole

between the world and me         between the word and me

they reconcile

the apprentice had completed the forest         with its own reflection

when you winked      it linked

and followed the traces of a deer


Red Tiled Floor

My hoofs shatter the glassy ground.

I run.

I'm in a race you see.

I put my foot forward and front. 

My hair dances in the air. 

My breath leaves and comes back home with groceries.

The Magnificent stage full of dance and play is far far away. 

The never-ending sight of empty chairs burns into my mammal eyes. 

They must have all ran off to join the race.

I run. I'm in a race you see.

It's still dark in here.

The faint light of the cinema lights my way.

Everyone is in front of me. 

Maybe if I didn't stop running here and there, 

maybe if I never got lost in this opera, 

maybe I could run with pride.

Everyone must be so far in front of me. 

Maybe I should just walk or just stop and cry.

As my hoofs leave marks of the floor, 

as my hair brushes against the chairs with no doors.

I see a man

A masked man.

Crowning a beautiful mask etched with heart gold and colorful feathers.

The mask shows an expression of playfulness. 

Like a child losing himself in the drama of ants. 

He sits in silence. Watching the stage from far far away.

I stop dead in my tracks.

"Why do you sit here? 

Mustn't you keep running" 

I ask condescendingly.

He continues to watch the play in silence from far far away.

I don't understand him.

I ask again, 

"Why do you not run?. the more you wait the further the others will go."

The man chuckles. I can't tell if he's laughing at the play or myself.

"what race? My little mammal friend." 

The masked man taunts me like a circus jester.

I stand in silence and get ready to go.

But before I fly my wings he speaks gently to me,

"Take a rest, my friend. 

And sit upon this throne of thorns. 

For the play is beautiful, and watching just for the end has no use at all. 

And let the eclipse of life pass through your ever dancing soul. 

For mark my words child. It will all be ok. 

Now sit and enjoy the play." 

His mask smiles, ever so sweetly.

I run. 

But not for the race anymore. 

I run for the run. 

For that was the point of all.

..... The poem written by my son .....