Poems by Ivan Gaćina, Croatia

Through the outspread windows
my thoughts mixed with the crystals of eternity
travel into oblivion
through myriads of incomprehensible structures
of unusual colors and imaginative shapes
creating a unique image
of absolute perfection
in the eyes of some other cosmos’ creators.

Far behind the mirroring rainbows
there are colorful and fictious paths
winding through insurmountable powermind
of phantasmagoric geniuses
running time wheels machinery
in a mysterious mindcity
with ideas scattered like stones
at the bottom of the ocean of the transparent world.

Even the wisest philosophers have not recorded
the hurricane dust of blazing consciousness,
deposited behind the seventeenth footnote
and the retinas of the all-seeing eye of the galaxymind
beyond undefined return margins
forgotten in the basement of the ninth village
where future brilliant kingdoms are born
at the wrong turns of open windows.

Love From the Thirteenth Galaxy

In the bluish constellation,
on the threshold of the triumphal arch of time,
I search for the remnants of the past
among milliards of stars.
The shards of the bygone love
warm the coldness of the universe
through the lunar shadows
and cosmic-milky pathways.
I swing on the time swing
through the light years
looking for your gentle face
hidden behind a hazy canvas
there where atoms and quanta
under the mystical domes,
violating the laws of reflection,
create the cascades of mirror existence.
In the kingdom behind the black holes
my dissolved pains disappear,
flowing through the spiral corridors
into the golden valley of the cosmosmind.
Through the fiery dawn,
like a hunter, I follow the traces of your soul,
collecting my scattered longings,
the shards from the thirteenth galaxy.

A Dead Poet’s Song

As the winds spread stories about the dead,
the bloody nightmares awaken in me,
and the sorrow entwined in a Gordian knot
snakes along the path of cruel suffering.
Giant blades defile my soul
through the waves of dense, endless darkness.
As the jaws squeeze me, I fight like a lion,
feeling your voice in the mist of memories.

Black angels, masters of pain
besiege the Tower of Babel.
As the executioners of hell scream louder and louder,
the living souls sob pressed by the beasts’ claws.
The time stands, destiny waits still,
the gloomy wells endlessly gape.
I write down my memories by the abyss
as multi-layered fires simmer around.

As Pan’s flute awakens the apocalypse,
I ripple through a spectrum of horror cries.
At the crossroads of truth the fragments of (non)existence
hold the lost hopes together,
and the false world disappears in the sulfur river
behind the dark scenes of lagoon of nothingness.
As the winds sing a song about me,
I follow the crucifix through the bosom of death