Dream: Cute Simulation GameWhile wasting time in front of the ISP-hosted underground amusement park/university I explain to two elderly Russian women (they are surprised that I speak Russian), that against my own expectations the underground amusement park is not a rip-off and that there even is a delicious confection, which one can have for free and in unlimited quantities. I give them a piece each.
The following takes place on a small square grassland in front of the entrance to the underground amusement park. I play a game with four cute miniature people (each of them the size of a finger), who harvest wood from two trees and re-plant them after complete exploitation. They walk freely without being bound to roads. Along with wood, they collect fruit from fruit trees. I consider letting them plant two fields of crops for harvesting. Their housing and storage consists of one building made from wood only, so they probably do not require rock as a building material.
One of the people manages to get stuck on a pat
DosentomatenTomaten in Dosen
Brauch' ich für Soßen
Für Penne, Nudeln und Spaghetti
Ketschup ist eklig
Was essbares daraus zu machen
Ich brauche keine Pizzen
Ich brauch kein Glutamin
Hollari, Hollari, Hollero
Ich züchte selber Nudeln
Und esse sie dann Roh
Hollari, Hollari, Hollero
RainWater is falling, falling
Over the roads it is crawling, crawling
So gently washing, washing
Like a stream softly sloshing, sloshing
Around rocks and boulders and trees
And my feet are wading, wading
While my steps are trading, trading
Through the watry breeze
Garter Of VinesGarter of vines
Around the leg
Of a wood nymph
Waiting for him
As she walks amid her forest
Drifting into slumber at night
She dreams of him, the man she met-
Years ago, the man she still loves
Worlds apart, but share one heart
As she tends to the trees, she waits
For him to return, to fulfill-
His vow to remove the garter
At long last, he-
Arrives, takes the-
Garter of vines
And they embrace
Snow-Dusted PinesWhite plumes from chimneys,
and snow-dusted pines:
I can think of few things more emblematic,
of such a reflective time.
The evenings filled with tiny lights:
each a little spark of cheer,
and the woodsmoke at twilight:
an aroma of possibilities to come,
at the closing of the year.
And each flake's tiny touch of wetness upon your face,
is Nature giving you back a tear you once shed,
its cold and soothing numbness carrying away,
worries that refuse to leave your head.
And ancient Orion and the Dipper
in the spangled blackness above,
each give their light
to everyone just the same,
to their judgement alone,
your soul shall stand naked:
stripped of its pretensions
of both pride and blame.
And it's an ancient hope they give you:
that's far more profound
than the shallower concerns
that hide in the light of day;
that no matter what happens,
their light will always be there-
no matter how badly
you might lose your way.
And when your contemplation is finished,
you continue on your walk,
Moonlight and RainMy fingers taste the water as
It drips from raging sky
All draped in misty sheets of grey
And lit by silver eye.
I walk the silent streets alone
Beneath this gentle glow
As raindrops fall from up above
And fill the cracks below.
I stand here on these city streets
Beside a clogging drain,
Ignore the soaking of my boots,
And smile at the rain.
Old GrowthA moment only--if I cannot stand
here in this forest for a moment more
at least, just once, I want to feel this land
carved up by roots, and stretching to the shore
of broken limestone cliffs. These trees have seen
a century by now, at least, and grown
amongst young pines, and grown between
bright birches. Nearby a copper river flows
and falls into cascades of burnished foam.
A moment only--then the world is so
achingly small. I want to go back home
but everything is blurred, and I can't know
how many years these woods can still endure;
I wish I could--but I am so unsure.
'Til Time Stops TickingTime exist since we perceive change,
From moving atoms to beating hearts,
From machines simple to worlds strange,
All because of the changing of the parts,
When is the end of time, no one can truly know and say,
Some say it's heat death, when there's no more day,
Time ends when there's is nothing left to change,
And even then, that era can even be more strange.
My Way Homestillness descends
a single flake of snow
the footprints of my soul
fluttering around me
lifting and dropping
empty of irony
heralding horizons of elation
such welcomed tidings bid my mind farewell
bears a fortune of no computation
so light to carry such wealth which compels
discovering contours of winding roads
life jovially communing with breeze
listening, trees whisper familiar odes
with eyes closed I make my way home
Chemistry of loveThe synthesis of gazes,
Combustion of the thoughts;
Solution of amazing
With sweet, romantic notes.
The boiling excitement
And melting of the heart;
The state of feeling lighter,
Distilled from sense-filled part.
It saturates your being,
Yet never feels enough -
This catalyst of breathing,
This chemistry of love.