The contemplative flower of violet

The mellow flower of violet

is a fineness of the violet’s blossom in the moonlight

however the small eternity happens

in an enchanting woodland solitude

genus Viola is minor

but wonderful and subtle

so tranquil the last night was

when a sylvan dream was awakened

four butterflies landed

in the calyx of this violet

their elysian longing leaving

in the heart of the flower a diamond was created

from heart-like dreameries of butterflies

and from the eternal power of the starry night

and the moon shines on everything

I stay yet not far from that

in the phantasy – the violet so unfolded

intoxicated by charm and by homeland

as well as by starlit night

full of the dreamy Erlking

She-pirate and the tavern

It’s a late and warm autumn.

The wind gathered leaves up on the roof

of the marvellous tavern.

The seagulls heralded a memory – an initiation.

The old pensioner-captain drank the intoxicant,

like the ambrosia of life.

The female pirate Mary mentioned

her own stories – the primeval myth:

Icarus desired a dazzle of stars.

Daedalus wanted to become forever lost.

The flight was an absolute rapture.

Icarus! Be with me

as a ghost in the tavern of

the shine, the glory and the rebuke!

Don’t mourn the dreamy Daedalus!

His body was abducted by mermaids

of the sea and mysterious depths.

Icarus! Survive this night,

when the Morningstar has to precede

the fall of shooting stars,

here and there!

Drunk on emotions, full of eudaemonia,

perhaps a tender melancholy,

the woman pirate remembers the storm

of the century:

The ship! Don’t rock again!

You were close to me

and so romantic.

May the starlit, starry,

moonlit, moony melancholy

of night embrace the hearts

of guests of this missing

tavern!

Forever and for eternity,

the pirates will find

their destiny,

in harbours of hope, harbours full of

taverns,

which are decorated with flowers.

The woman pirate is crying

because of the parting

with the beloved parrot

in times of fulfilment of

the enchantment-bewitchment.

Her tear is not man-like,

It has the colour of gold,

such as the sun during the storm.

Mary longs for the pearl’s seeking,

in the sea full of memoirs of Daedalus,

of the hero of amusing and musing tenderness.

The sempiternity will be true.