A NEW EYE Poem by Sibila Petlevski

We didn't wait for the first stork above
the roof to fly but we put the nests on
the chimneys ourselves. Gone is the time
of wondering in which the rule would apply
that each thing is new to the new eye.
The dead quietly rise from the dead, people
live without idols all and each, freedom is
carried around like a pendant, one doesn't die
for it more than for anything else, water is
made from blood, while ears are protected
from words and music by natural pitch.
Time and space are offered in a packet.
You're almost a hero. Your senses
that used to be wrapped into a ball out of fear,
are slowly straightening, just like convolutions
of the brain. Life flows like current. It is
or isn't there: one or zero. We've learned
to share the feelings that used to belong
only to us like reflections on the water:
as many glasses, as many moons in the glass.