Image by Albrecht Fietz from Pixabay
The Wrinkles There are borders that I crossed at night in heavy shoes and quiet breathing when everything is darkening on the background of a moonless night and there are borders that I crossed with hope and a guitar and no shoes; cultures I loved and women I admired mingle as the dresses of dancing Sufis to both of those forgetfulness refuses to come but boundaries that I have crossed in a storm of emotions, with a hue of haughty heart, these the memory refuses to let go these are all the wrinkles on my face.
I Wrote Hundreds of Songs for Stones
I wrote hundreds of songs for stones, for the sun, the moon and for love. Only for my father I didn’t write. When I was young I was often told: You resemble your father so much and I refused seeing it even when I stood a long hour before the mirror. Over the years I have stopped looking in the mirror. It has nothing new to show me. The thin wrinkles on the side of the eyes, from laughter and cry, a greying hair and the sun signs playing on the wall aren’t me and aren’t my father. But my fingers, the way of standing and the posture of walking, all of those I have taken from my father even before the ring of the alarm clock, during the hours of big darkness. Like a prayer.
I Remember a Painting
For Wolfgang In the doctor’s waiting room life’s little dramas get different meaning A man | alone | on a small boat carried towards the waterfall silence’s nearing
Like his foremothers and fathers Guy Traiber is often roaming the vastness of the world and his own self, fulfilling the commandment “Get thee loose”. He practices and studies Japanese Medicine and decorates a drawer with a BA in Sociology & Political Science. He finds they relate. Guy likes to see the stories in the people who allow him and even more poems. He likes it if you write him a letter or an email ([email protected]).