too many - too much

It wasn’t meant to be a story.
Even the moon was too murky.
If only I knew what a wind
from the east has told to a night
the moment
I born.

The moment I born the moon was full.
I know. I was told by my mother.
And my brother was crying - he
could not colour that hole of the sky.

A winter it was when I born. So cold.
Fishes under ice.  Like old Greek men
in the afternoons. Sitting and sleeping.
Sleeping and dreaming.
Dreaming and dying. I know it’s a pity.
But the world is like that.
When an answer is known,
there is nobody to hear it,
even though you whisper too quietly.

Quietly the moon was singing when I born.
It was a scary moment. And a terrible one.
My mum died giving me a birth.
But this is a way the world is.
I am sure. Maybe I am too certain. My mum
has already told me.
And my brother is crying.
It might be – where are his colours?
Are they lost? Is everything lost?
Please, it is high time you stop crying.

You know, that’s a way.

That’s a way. And the full moon is lost.
And the full moon is a sea under the ice
where fishes – even like me – are sitting. Sitting
and dreaming.