Dream & Illusions

Eve’s temptation (above)


her tears (below)

is time which gives friends


Why what?

Why am I a poet?

Because. I too…

…was born to preserve this form of self-discovery
which leads to a recognition in objects
of that which is thought of as poetic
– the invisible ever present –

and to conceptually
giving alphabetic representation
in the relevant language to that
which lies between the lines.
And those words and sentences not formulated
need neither spelling out nor writing down.

Of course, such an approach
to silence becomes onomatopoetic
and can be seen
– whatever your social class –
as a luxury. Maybe not only this
appears irrational, yet leads
to eternal richness, to poetic freedom.

In reality

nothing is real

but it’s a colourful…

…inspiring feeling!
(photo: film scene of “Blue Desert”, Ténéré 1992)

Go and listen to the silence
and you may hear the wind!

The wind doesn’t whisper,
it just comes from far, far away.

(photo: Namib grass in Wolwedans, Namibia)


Blowin’ in the wind …

Is it a concert?
Yes, but not written by Bob D.
Arranged by grains of sand
touching air and space.

(photo: music VIDEO ”I’m waiting here”, Gassi Taouil, Sahara, song: Lydia Daher, music: Tatafull, 2015)

Why Sicily?
There is no other country
so full of opposites as this one. 
Dreams & Illusions form a unit as soon as you recognize
these contradictions.


You can see that in the next picture,
which I took in the Valley of the Belice in April 2016.
Thunderstorms and lightning worthy of the opera.

Exactly there, where half a century ago,
a devastating earthquake destroyed not only villages
but wiped out entire families.
The traces of destruction are today preserved in an art form. In front of the artwork of a village encased: flowering life.


Between a thousand lightning strikes the sun shone for just seconds;

The storm which immediately followed shattered the stage curtain, as if wafer-thin glass, tearing the flowers asunder.




In that very short moment I succeeded
in capturing the typical shrill cry of life,
called Sicilianità 


Minutes later the flowers had gone,

but a photo is proof of the fury of the divine.

The dream was gone…

… but the illusion

still hangs, by a silken thread,

like pollen.