We get rid of bad habits,
we apply bandage to the wound,
the mystery is making a confession.

A cat cuts your way,
the awakened subconscious works,
the perplexity arises
why the will does not enter the action.

A word of encouragement
strengthens the chance you believe in,
the letters build themselves like stones in the wall
until the words make the castle
which gate the poets sleep at.

Next there’s the street to the station
with pubs and sordid dens
and drunks with Bohemia claims.
The pain and poverty flow wasted like the oil
on the pavement in pits.
The night is coming like an old gypsy woman
puffing a cheap cigarette.
The gray mist inside yourself
comes out of your skin through all your pores,
the venomous nerves invade you,
the uncertainty finds you empty
left on a road
with no coming back.