It rains, and children, in rubber boots,
walk into the deepest puddles.
It rains the grass grows wet,
and my feet burn, for they are bare.
Rain is most beautiful in the mist,
and the pains our bodies feel
as the rain approaches
vanish with the rain.

The car windows lie back into the rain,
yet the rain keeps soaking them again.
This process
and the squeaking of the windshield wipers
is my favorite.
In these moments,
I dream of heavier rain,
of a longer traffic jam
so I wouldn’t be able to go back home.

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.

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.