Poetry

There are doors
the white doors next to which
flowers don’t grow 
nor butterflies fly
 
when opening
– they are being opened and speak up
 
the old high double-wing doors
placed in the infinite
space of the Universe
here among the yellow walls
of the prewar flat
they stand in a silent speech
 
they don’t evoke aesthetic feelings
rather they create a metaphysical silence
when I stand in front to
look and listen
 
then I am going through
and I eat an apple
 
there are the doors which
I am passing through
there is myself and the taste of apple
 
there is He who Is
there is He who was
there is He who will be

 
                                 1983