In the prison of art

Ivory tower

The Sassanids pass in the distance

Helis and Stukas don’t notice us

In the lonely fortress of beauty

Scraps of words from unknown languages ​​are being blown out of the Caucasus by the wind

Into the ears and eyebags of dreams and intuition

At the center of conflicting energies

Pole fields tug at the substance

Feet and bones burn

Within the sacred limits of pure art

Where even the lemon trees wither and radioactivity dominates the ideal concept of dividing pure creation

What is lie here and what is the truth is still not clear

And yet there are big bear faces here and fresh paw prints in the snow up by the forest

There are Khikhvi here and wagtails and steppe rollers

Every new crisis tears down concrete locks made by bad architects and poor planners – cement B37 Blue

Jays chase each other, ravens

Thoughts, poems, sketches, doubts

Colours

Gallantry

Silence

3.6.2022