There is a wheel.
This wheel is an anchor,
and a yoke.
It goes round
and carries us.
It has been
going
forever.
There is
a ring of fire
under it.
Sometimes
you see the flames
from the wheel.
They speak to you
of warning,
memory,
truth,
like a whisper
from a mirror.
The wheel keeps going.
You carry it.
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 8:18 AM UTC
It doesn't matter that
your father abandoned you.
It doesn't matter,
because men abandon;
some men abandon;
a man abandoned;
a man abandons.
Sometimes I can
hear their steps
in the dark.
It doesn't matter that
your mother suffered
like her mother suffered
and made you suffer,
because women suffer;
some women suffer;
a woman suffered;
a woman suffers.
Sometimes I can
hear their steps
in the dark
while they go away.
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 8:15 AM UTC
A child is a flower
that knows the seasons by heart
while you remain immobile
like a statue.
A child is
a hat made of leaves
and the snow cannot reach you.
A child is a small thing.
A child grows,
and is a big thing.
A child is
when you were a child.
A child is
your parents
(when you were a child).
A child is a capricious god
that steals your glasses
when you're wandering
in the dark.
A child is here and now.
A child is here on this earth.
A child is nosotros.
Mañana. Siempre.
A child is.
Nov 19, 2025
Nov 19, 2025 at 2:35 PM UTC
The stars are out
and you know the way
- Piccadilly, Rusholme,
Withington, Wythenshawe.
These are names that could
freeze your soul in blue
and maybe light a candle
in the dark if you could
only find a spark.
Every building is an open door,
every street an absent flower
that unknown gods collected
long ago when it was raining.
This is England - a promise.
I tell myself - there is a plan.
Just follow through,
be yourself, smile under
this weird constellation and
expect the unexpected;
what you want will happen,
it's just probability
and probability is
always on your side
when you are in Manchester.
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 3:53 AM UTC
I still see the trees
and feel the wind that
gently shakes the leaves
and the big buildings
when the light is fading
and the evening
is more than a promise
that people going back home
like ghosts of June
can't keep even though
Milano is looking great
and you come to me
and say hello pumpkin
can we live in this park
forever and eat melon.
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 5:03 PM UTC
I'm in England,
and in some other part
of the world, you are too.
Our journey's been long,
and we move the sky with us
like the people of old.
Across green fields,
red brick houses
and old factories.
Far beyond the sadness in the
face of somebody you
see every day on the bus
- a sadness you can relate to,
because you are
the same, after all,
but can't explain (and what
would be the point?).
Leaving behind green lakes
and desolate mountains
and tiny villages,
there is a place
someone like us
once called home.
It might be a small house,
surrounded by trees,
or maybe a bright flat
where children once laughed.
We follow in the footsteps
of a thousand nations.
That's why when we leave,
we'll be back, and when leaving again,
we'll still be here.
Is this country a refuge in the night
where we sleep until the morning
of our lives, or the embodiment
of the unattainable?
We keep moving forward,
and I'm blinded by the lights
- but I embrace it.
This is me now.
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 2:43 PM UTC
I have always been afraid
of words meaning too much,
or too little. But with you,
I have never been afraid.
I have felt, though, responsible
for your pain.
You are something to me.
And I have been something to you, too.
When I remember the touch of your hand
(and I am far, far away)
life shrinks and shines:
everything is simple.
You were there for me.
You never put a price on your love,
and your love was priceless.
It was tall as the tree that grows
in your childhood memories
still.
It was heavy as a rock
from Mount Everest;
I cannot lift it,
but it helps me climb
to the top.
I have always been afraid
of words meaning too much,
or too little. But with you,
I have never been afraid.
All these years on planet Earth,
and I am grateful.
I will see you now.
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 5:52 PM UTC
It's a small bar,
with old wooden tables
and no music:
I like to get a break sometimes
and I come here every Sunday
after my CBT sessions.
The waitress smiles.
She is Spanish too but
(it's that white mist
taking over my mind again)
I can't articulate
and I just speak English,
hoping she doesn't notice
my accent.
When she brings me
a dark decaf coffee,
even if I have asked
for a decaf tea,
and I taste it,
and it tastes horrible,
I lose balance and stumble
for a moment
("you are going to fail",
and "this is all your fault",
and "just let it go, don't move,
it'll pass").
It is such a small detail
in the grand scheme of things,
but this decaf coffee, this black mist,
makes me feel that
there is something wrong with me.
I look through the window:
across the road, a student residence,
all windows and shining glass.
A girl goes up the stairs
with a blue basket in her hands;
she is probably doing the laundry.
Another girl leans on the sill,
and smokes. I invent a life for them,
and it's a good life - a life to praise.
I want to go back to Uni, I think,
and for a moment I feel safe, and warm.
("Never mind,
I'm too old, after all").
I pay for the coffee and leave.
In two hours, she'll have clean clothes,
and I don't know where I'll be
(especially on days like these,
when my mind feels heavy,
and weak).
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 3:56 PM UTC
I live in this city alone.
It is always cloudy here.
It is cold and it rains all the time
but you could find love
if you wanted. That's what
I tell myself when I'm wet and cold
on a lonely street, walking home.
You could look through the window
of an old Victorian house and,
seeing a beautiful family
in a living room full of books,
think “this could be my family”.
Or, in another reality, “that
could be me, as a child or, maybe
one day, as a father”.
The city has no limits;
take advantage,
this could be your land.
You could call this city home,
bend it to your will
if you wanted to.
Take this city in your hands
and squeeze it.
Forge a big heart out of it
or some wings.
Just give it a chance,
it’s not too late
and you still need to get home
and it's ****** raining
again.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 5:56 AM UTC
I am leaving this house,
where I once dreamed of a shared life,
shards of future reflecting the light,
telling me "you can do this, yes,
you can."
Somebody left;
the roots were shaken
but the tree still stands.
I am leaving this house,
this refuge, solid ground.
There was only a dark night;
it lasted for two weeks,
and I survived.
I am leaving this house.
(I didn’t sleep for two weeks,
that time, but it’s over now,
I am fine).
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 5:12 AM UTC