Satu Kaikkonen

Prometheus, pour the wine to the earth

My best days are gone,

the beards of the trees are verging on the wind.

Prometheus, pour the wine to the earth,

irrigate from it the mountainside,

make the language of the flowers empty.

If I would understand what the rivers are talking,

I would write the heavens crack,

I would remember what it seems to the mind of an awakened pigeon

when its beak splits the egg-shell space

for a first time.

Have a mercy on me!

I don’t want my hands to beat the memory of the life,

my foot to forget how to run,

and so, therefore!

Take a piece of the white bread, erase the letters,

then bow and say three times three,

the oath of thirteen,

open the lantern of our pilgrimage,

but don’t blow before the horse

runs through the field and sings a song

for the fox.

Satu Kaikkonen

dream'less

I confound you by our evry part,
          we shall changed into  birds
and the sky is a blanket
     from which the light dives its naked shadow.

Dreams eat us the same way
as the flowers are eating their way through the earth.
Waking up is a risky oppoturnity, a measure,
which painfulness is forgotten
               time after time more easily.


Your face will be dearer to me day after day altought
I forget  the continuums of  your little details.
I touch you through my dream
- you are far away, and near,
so near as the length of the breath,
under these same
clouds

at the place I don’t know
yet, maybe never.

Satu Kaikkonen

so light that I would be

the moment will be yours who fly away
                     I will fall trough the wind so light
that I would be
without you lightweight, non-existent
a water-cutted leaf, spat into the darkness of the night
a fleeting leaf

                     I do not want the  time passing over the trees
as a foreign

Satu Kaikkonen

the will of the mind

the dreams are owned by strangers.
                   if I had men they would be he.
he lives far away, in a place, where all the windows are beginning from letter a.
in a place where the nights are under the stars, and
                            dates are speaking eyes smelling as coffee.

he is gone,  and for ever here, as the will of the mind
sticking the bosom of a dream  early in the morning.



                                                               unable to catch I hold his hair through my hands
his smile, his eyes elsewhere
which are seeing another way.

                                                                 so tenderly I would been quiet, quiet, quiet.