Boris Grebenshikov ,Winter.

Now that the summer is gone
Snow"s on the ground
I sought and I found
I know what I found is true
But the bitter gray sky
Fades into silence
Only the fire is left
And some say it"s not enough
To carry us through

Days of apple bloom white
Silver and steel
Tales of webs
Spun around a careless heart
I dream of the snow-white seagulls
Crying to show me the way
But I will stay here with you
And nothing will ever come
To tear us apart

Look into my eyes sister
No harm will come to you
Look into my eyes sister
No harm will come to you

The Wind ,Boris Grebenshikov-,Radio Silence

Radio Silence

It suddenly feels like a new year
Like I'm a million miles away from here
I can see some kind of light here
Although I won't name it

I want to talk about the moonlight
I want to talk about the wild child, you know
That real wild one, dancing alone
In the middle of the whirlpool

Spinning tales about silence
About radio silence
About some kind of asylum
In the middle of an empty field full of danger

It's strange I don't feel like I'm a stranger

I feel like I belong here
I feel like I've been waiting for a long time
And now I can tell you some stories

Stories about the madmen
Stories about the dream-child
You know, that real wild one
Who dances alone
In the middle of the whirlpool
And I can tell you about silence
About radio silence
About some kind of asylum
In the middle of an empty field full of danger

If you want it

Neil Young ,Dead Man Theme (long version)

a short "essay" on "my" intelligence

intelligence tells me i die and now i live.
I die and live. I am alive.
I live as consciously,
as passionately
and as truly as i can with all
the richness of life and death,
with the sweetness of  grapes, the taste of  apples,
the scent of flowers, with kisses
and embraces and tenderness
and all desire
to be free and open to see, to be
free of thought and pre-judgement
and of as many concepts as i can be.

My greatest desire is to be near to essence,
to true and conscious experience.

Essence is a word, but essence cannot be in a word.

I must move on,  grow inside, water my love
and my kindness.
I must live
with my emptiness and
with my fullness, my not-mine
and non-me and my many me,
my idiot child in me and my education
and past, my wishes and dreams
and with all the cruelty and violence
and desert and indifference of the days
and the human race and me,
fighting, going inside to find my way.

all this intelligence tells me.
It tells me i am not and I am.
I feel me living, this is all.
And i feel this passionately.

i love and i am in love,
enchanted by the essence of another,
no need for chanting,
i walk with it and listen.
I remain untouchable in essence
but touchable. I changes, not essence.

Can anybody do more than to listen?

Intelligence tells me: all is fragile,
and the beauty of the filigree
is all the more beautiful for it.

ps: i am not so very intelligent
and not always conscious of what i do,
certainly not of what i write...