the mind becomes more mindful
and sight remains insightful
night draws nigh as day recedes
and what is heavy has been heaved

Dangerous times. Strange days.
No matter when you leave home – it's night.
Night and the flames of camp stoves in the sky
As if a crowd of tourists had waded
Into a forest glade.

The body is my news.
Everything is written there that others need to know.
And they need to know that what I experienced
is not so easy to forget.

In these dark times, many complain about
the lack of light
badmouthing all that is white
as tainted and stinky

Of all the possible worlds for me Wherever I was, or travelled to see There was one / it seemed / the truest Neither above / nor below uprooted

because now, at this moment
everything is fine

water still tastes good.
I am still alive.

I should like to take you someday
to the underground vaults of this city,
where beneath the steel-clad enclosures
the fiery carbuncle stone glows.

I still act out of hunger, out of absence,
I drive myself with a whip of boundless plains.
Endless journeys exist.
Conquered wastelands are too small.

closing my eyes doesn’t help
I press my palms against my lids
to see the stars –
islands of light
in a sea of darkness

I’m not sure whether I should be thankful to Tomas Petrulis for creating me, for while writing his book THE BODY OF A THING he would force me into awkward and even dangerous situations.