Other People's Names

we repeat the movements of someone's hands,
not knowing where the gesture ends and the sound begins.

We dissolve in the rhythm, like in a canvas,
where shadows dance on a dusty, cooled wall.
And each of our exhalations is a random sketch in the dark,
a forgotten truth in someone else's names.

We are looking for support in the tangle of pauses and words,
in an attempt to wake up from the captivity of imposed dreams.
But the circle line will close again at the line:
in movement - I, and in sound - only you.

The edges are erased, and time flows through hearts,
we are looking for a plot that has no end.
And in this movement, which became stronger than a cry,
the whole world freezes, catching this ghostly moment.

An invisible impulse of someone is circling us around the hall,
the melody flows like an old, worn-out tune.
And it seems that if you stop dancing for a moment,
We can finally call silence behind us.

we repeat the movements of someone's hands,
not knowing where the gesture ends and the sound begins.

But it's worth slowing down -
the pulse begins to sound,
as if inside us
someone continues to count.

And in every touch -
pain without "buts"
and in every silence -
something that happened a long time ago.

The edges are erased, and time flows through hearts,
we are looking for a plot that has no end.
And in this movement, which became stronger than a cry,
the whole world freezes, catching this ghostly moment.

And if we still
let's dare to get out of the circle
we'll just see
what didn't happen
not me, not you, not each other.