Street of crocodiles
The street of wandering crocodiles and shameless women
evoked in my memory the sudden burst of thoughts
making me the story teller.
A child used to draw audacious pictures,
as if he had been born many centuries earlier
with the ability to remain invisible.
The suffocating smell of perfumes and series of glances
created the image of half-dream that couldn`t have survived.
I wasn`t anybody special:
weak body born by coincidence,
a little bit childish soul and mind.
Drop by drop
my eyesight was going deeper and deeper
perceiving the most hidden points of the magical street of crocodiles.
I must have been born as a lizard,
yellow, small animal,
hated reptile seeking her place.
Enchanting smell of my body,
as if it had been an enchanted poison,
had been flowing along the streets
lulling everybody dancing there tango.
The sad northern ballade,
which lost its title in the mists of the wind,
like a suddenly closed book
resounded to the end.
Mysteriously flavoured streets are glittering with the crocodile light
when I looked up seeing the single cloud opening its eyes.
Then my skin which was covered with slippery scales
seemed to be so light that I was about to fly.
I became a lonely bird,
whose wings took up to the end of unknown world,
where stories don`t have the end.
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