Swing of stars

 Locked in the yard,

 I cut myself night after night

 a piece from the cloud and

 drink to the stars,

 until their swaying is a signal to me.

 I ride on a cloud strand

 to the star swing.

                            ***

Golden Beach

No softer carpet – than the sand in the Mediterranean Sea,

that the light splits in honeycombs,

on which I look while wading through crystal clear water.

No fish, no crab meet me,

the dark spots of the mountain splinters I avoid.

In the bay with the church of the apostle on the rock -

a landmark for castaways,

I swim in Poseidon’s four-poster bed.

Here, where cape Apostolos Andreas

like a spearhead stings to Latakia into the sea,

which rests like a dish in the shell of the earth

and promises never again to devour a rubber boat.

(From the cycle „On Caravan Roads“)