Mulled wine

At first, when I met him,

His presence would reek of mulled wine

But he was sober,

As sober and critical,

As down-to-earth as possible.

 

Then he would smell of

Lime - as dry and toxic as possible,

As uninviting, uncooperative and brusque

As possible.

What if he was working on repairing his faith in people on that day?

 

Then I finally started feeling

A breath of iodium

On a seashore,

And this is how we perceive our freedom -

 

A vast engine of the sky

Falling into the endless depth of the sea.

 

His poems

Turned into labyrinths

Although they started out as confessions.

 

I sense too much,

How can I build a proper hypothesis

On shaky ground of my limited and imperfect experience?

 

'A scientist should not be too empirical' -

A monograph says.

 

I sip berry juice

And may look a bit absent-minded

When I keep asking myself

How will all of us be remembered.