Under Bielawian sky

The tree was cut down - my mother told me on the way to my grandmothers apartment. At that day when it happened she has already knew that my grandmother would die. I was still driving in the sunny day along the fjord watching the passing cars and thinking - Who the hell will pray now for me if my grandmother will die. It seems that the time has come that there is no one than myself any more.

If you were walking by my side then you would see that the wind is still there within inside the tops of trees, closer to the sky with dark blue stars exploding towards us. And all our thoughts like crumbled stones on the shore that try to get to the awe of a blue fresh jaws of the ocean that will swallow all.

And stories running through the minds and people coming by in them. Me, my mother and her we all are laughing loud in the moments when we shall cry, but even though we see it all as the drama of its own where they and me and him and all just playing script of broken souls. And we are laughing there more and more and smoke is coming up the nose and drinks are rumbling down the throats as if that, this and all was just a fucking joke.

And moon is shining still, and clouds are passing by, the tower somewhere far reminds where shall we come, to pray, to smoke and laugh in manners that all we try.


And all the broken souls, once gathered by its own, they think, they sink, they try to love, and even though the words are gone we all know the change is not. So why to struggle and why to fight when battle has already been fought twice, sometimes millions and ones and now we here and now again in the scenario of god damn.

Yes we will play, as the dice were played. But who is six and who is three and who the middle one. Just play and gamble and feel fine, because you can not to cheat the fans.


To cry or to laugh, all will come once when you are done.