I slid down on moving rivers,
Reaching the deepest point,
Nailed to colorful surfaces, naked and diagonal.
The current left me undamaged, yet the attraction,
Pushed me into the rippling tide of anger.
Vortices rise in the still eye of the lake,
Wasted in circulation,
Noise and dust also suffered victorious,
The only instance of the dancing truths,
Purified by this flood of rhythmic and confused sluggishness, I pierced the sky, lightning, waves and tides.
Following for months the scent of the stars,
The milky water layers,
To that place where the drowned have gone.
Unaware that the Virgin Marys reigned here,
Gray, situated on the ground with glowing feet,
In control of weakness.
Dead calm.
Stunted trees, cursed by scents, consumed by bugs. Fermenting, rotting in the marshes,
Glowing chests between rushes and the shimmering sea. Lost ship, cruiser, hanseatic sailors, water drunken wreck, Digitally tainted by lunatics, doubt and lies.
Trembling, broken, open to the outlaw‘s journey, oh, future!Missing Europe‘s old and reliable art.
Dead calm.
A plethora of images.
Deserted.

– Frank Balve –