Surround sound

I can hear my footsteps

as I walk through
a world of sound
made by men’s creations
and constructions

and nature
who fight every day
and night to remain
present

I can hear my footsteps

for they are my doing
my walking
my left behind prints
on these streets

only for seconds
tops
pursuing whatever
drives me forward

I can still hear my footsteps

over all the cars
and public transport
and cutting winds
fighting those skyscrapers

over people talking
and bicycles and mopeds
and pigeons and lovers kissing
and phones calling

I can still hear my footsteps

for they are mine
as a part of my nature
of me being human
as a part of nature

I can hear my footsteps

not as some machinery
at work but soft touch
on new grounds day in day out
when I actually listen

I can hear my footsteps

through all the noise
surrounding me
captivating me
when outside

I can hear

what is always there
as long as I

M.S.

your streets (English)

your streets
are the wrinkles
on your skin
that my fingertips
were made for

the doors
on each side of the road
and pavements I feel
touching the endings
of my limbs

are
mostly
unseen
untouched
unrecognized by me

yet
always there
as the keepers of secrets
I’m unable to read between
the lines that shift

the nude architecture
of you from random city view
to a never spoken body
language
I’m learning to speak

to understand
to get used to
in a daily routine
every single time I’m
trying to reach

something
I believe defines
the essence that makes you
you that makes me
want more of your dreams

told
with subtle silent whispers
sliding just around the corners
and curves and clouds
you’re covered in

your streets
turn me into one of many
vampires cursed and blessed
with an urge to manifest fangs
to make you bleed

to get drunk on life
to give you some back
to make you grow higher
than the skies I’ll grab when I
look up to you without a

desire
to leave
your landmarks and face
I only want to paint in words with
the tongue and lips I use to say ‘hi’

M.S.

Grown ups (English)

houses
little brick ones
will grow old
but never up when
staring
at the ground

there comes a time
when the bricks
must
bow
to constructions
who crawl towards skies
that only seem
a boundary

little did they know

memories of their birth
were never replaced
with new knowledge
of the here and now

honored though

once they were symbols
made of stone
after so many
of their allies
have been struck down
by the violence of war

once they were young too
now
they’re just old

observing
while the city’s evolves
and develops
and renews itself

there comes a time
when the houses
little brick ones
will fall into peace

their children
are scraping skies
before they tumble
down upon those
who paved the streets
who marked places
which say

‘here it’s best
to become
a grown up
growing old’

then they will know

evolution
is not about
the left cornerstone
upon which one builds

evolution
is about how much
free
space
one passes on
for the young grown ups

M.S.