Wings for rent

This is a book, not a collection of poems, and this is a book to the extent that the author is able to rise to an inaccessible level. The book, like the cathedral, involves strict architecture when music arises from constant roll call of individual elements of the structure, when there is a rhythm and rhyme, and it doesn’t matter what they found in stone, in stone, in music or in a word.

Each head here is named by a line found in one of the poems of this chapter, being as if it was a foreshadow or - let it sound somewhat absurd - a leading echo of the line, which will appear a little later. The number of chapters is thirteen. Lucky number!

I like that the past and now and then overtakes the present, without applying any efforts to this, and the present sees the past, and sees in front of itself without turning around. And life is intertwined with death, as it happens only during life, and - with special force - in the event of creativity