25.

Stars huddle into tears which smear a cardigan.
How many stars !
They plummet into the dream-garden under the castle,
and in the mornings we gather them in bucket-fulls.
They turn to blueberries, kisses, hot-cross buns,
into the poetic dust which falls on suffering,
on future plans and on pianos.
Not that many poems breathe.

Some days are more here than others.

25.

25.

Zvezde se nagnetejo v solze in popacajo jopo.
Koliko zvezd!
Na sanjskem vrtu pod Gradom se utrinjajo,
zjutraj jih naberemo polne pladnje.
Spreminjajo se v borovnice, objeme, buhteljne,
v poetični prah, ki pade po trpljenju,
po načrtih in klavirju.
Samo neke pesmi dihajo.

En dan je bolj resničen od drugega.