Perhaps it's true, perhaps it's not,
Perhaps it's just imagination,
Perhaps it fell upon my lot
To fabric truth with my creation…
They say there was a distant world –
A world of beauty, truth, and music,
And it was young, and it was old,
And was, alas, its beauty losing…
The endless, peaceful, nimble skies,
The streams that flow in the distance
Of course came from azure eyes
That played and sparkled, read and listened.
The sun that danced as if possessed
And slept, exhausted by the distance –
A dancer better than the rest,
But not, of course, than Dancing Sisters.
Its rays that granted life with style
Were made of blazing Noni hair,
And all its warmth was but a smile –
So mischevious, divine, and daring.
Remember, this is just a story,
A playful string of rhymes and words.
In all its truth, in all its glory
It might be real, might be absurd.
This world abounded with spirits
And Gods and Goddesses galore,
But one with dances, songs, and lyrics
Was Mistress of artistic lore.
She waved a hand and winds were racing
And clouds came when she was bored,
She covered all the planet spaces
With chocolate of the finest sort.
And with her paints the leaves of autumn
Appeared on the thankful trees,
She blinked her eyes and winter brought them
The bluish blankets with a breeze.
Perhaps it's true, perhaps it's not,
Perhaps it's just imagination,
Perhaps it fell upon my lot
To fabric truth with my creation…
But something happened - winds of evil
Were blown once upon this world:
The leaves and spirits fell and shriveled
And it was cold, bitter cold.
Perhaps it was that some of spirits
Were short on chocolate and sweets,
But they were deaf to songs and lyrics,
And sought to end it in a blitz.
Perhaps they never tasted Noni,
Perhaps they were just blind or mute,
Perhaps they thought that life was phony.
In either case, they ran and flew
Destroying all the fairy tales
And drying seas and drying lands,
But, wait, behold, their strength was weary
And sick were their endoctrine glands.
A man of truth, belief and wisdom
Was tired of all the impish sprites.
He looked and saw, observed and listened
And bade to set the world to rights.
Perhaps by luck, by fate or fortune
I fell myself into this book
To help relieve the craze and torture
To listen, learn, observe, and look.
To checkmate ruthlessly the gory
And bloody armies to defeat,
To bring this story back to glory
And lay this planet at the feet -
Of one with blazing Noni hair,
With azure, smiling, charming eyes,
And who's fresh like morning air,
Complete with love, devoid of lies,
Perhaps it's true, perhaps it;s not,
Perhaps it's just imagination,
Perhaps it fell upon my lot
To fabric truth with my creation…
I fell myself into this story,
And losing caution, fell in love.
The book is all but trite and boring
And not the same as one above
Is every chapter. What a joke –
We write the book and read the same.
A playful, daring, crazy stroke –
I put my name beside her name.
Admiring her without symbols,
Without sounds, loud chords,
Without pompous drums or cymbals,
But just admiring – no words.
My task at hand is rather clear –
To walk in footsteps of a man
Who broke through, despising fear,
To write the story once again.
But wait, the story's rather stubborn
It needs a gentle, blue-eyed touch.
And, thus, a simple question hovers:
Where do I get a writer such?
I looked before my eyes and grateful
That trained to fall, I fell in love.
Was it by reason, was it fateful? –
Who cares? Love is simply love.
It's love in Switzerland or Paris,
It's love in Rome, and on Mars,
It's love that never, ever varies
Beneath the storms, beneath the stars-
It has no time, no rhyme or reason.
I';s love in Melbourne or Bavaria
It knows no rainy season,
It's light as poems, just as easy,
It is a promise, one that's pleasing,
It's admiration, never varying,
And so a question has arisen:
“Sabrina, Bina, will you marry me?”
Late September, 2006 Flawil, Switzerland