I remember those nights when my mother read me fairy tales,
I would fall asleep in clean white sheets,
dreaming dreams
outside, the wind swayed the branches.
Back then, nothing felt as fairy-tale-like
as the morning
that began with pearl-colored
milk.

One winter, I noticed a migrant black crow,
arrived from a distant foreign land,
from my balcony
it was sitting and watching the gray crows,
who were hungry, since it was morning.
The black crow looked strong and calm.
I wondered
was it hungry too?
But it sat apart,
its feathers shimmering
like black satin.

Trees nourish hearts,
and I dyed my hair with the paint of their bark.
Like in Chinese fairy tales,
I don’t eat bird nests
that’s how I learned about such dishes,
probably from Pippi Longstocking.
I heard about bird nests as food from her.
It’s cold now,
so I decided
to make a sauce with vegetables
just to warm up the chill.

Something Special
Grandpa used to bring simple candies.
His knock on the door would spark our excitement.
And why was he so kind, after all?
He taught me chess,
loved to read,
was a Labourist.
I don’t remember much else.
It's sad he left this world too soon.
I think I would’ve learned more about him
if I were older.

I will drink a ****** Mary
with the aroma of tomatoes,
turn on my plasma TV
with useless news
nausea takes hold of me,
and the sand unfolds...

small fantasies,
melted candles,
the taste of starch,
the smell of rotting potatoes,
a blow
to the sore spot
Achilles’ heel.
children of sin
tread a steep cliff.

A fleeting fantasy,
an outburst of love
radiant as Greek myth.
To wake from the haze of sleep
is no simple thing.
My butterfly has flown away.