Translated by Mladen Georgiev

A nuclear graveyard blossoms

under my feet.

in the hasty branches

I smell the spring

and a titmouse.

Compressed sound waves

and sharpened matter.

Like someone

is breathing from me

into a forgotten flute.

No light,

no space.

A mutating melody

between the unharmonious holes

of the cosmic harmonica,

a deadly cherry, drunk on heavy water,

bitten by the trusting landscape

of the local

Garden of Eden.

A leukemic angel left without his guardian angel

is sitting on the creaking bench and is thinking with emotion

about an insatiable Genesis

in the nuclear graveyard.