I painted my dreams with you,
night after night,
renaming the seasons—
Thouspring,
where are you?
I became a lighthouse
in the seas of love,
and at every dawn
I offered you the sky—
Thouspring,
where are you?
I swam against death
along grey cliffs,
and every autumn
seared my soul
with paper blades—
Thouspring,
where are you?
even my breath,
that could blind the winds,
was not enough
to summon the waves
to wash your shores—
Thouspring,
w h e r e a r e y o u
O
love
that will make us
immortal—
where are you?
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 9:19 AM UTC
“love is fatal—if one truly loves”
in those hours
when destinies were accursed
and the gods unbearably dull,
it meant listening
to lines spilling from the fingers
of a vagabond poet
played on dissonant violins
when the magpies fell into silence
and your lips swayed with alcohol,
it meant dreaming
on the naked wings of swallows
in those hours
when freedom festered
and revolutions were deemed sacred,
it meant spitting on humanity
inside cells rank with decay,
cursing without restraint
loving you—
my season of longing
that refused to end,
you were the firefly
I carried in my pocket
like a hidden flame
we—
you and I—
beneath the mournful rains
of menacing days,
were two wounded souls,
unshielded,
without an umbrella
we—
you and I—
in the womb of the sea of freedom,
were the vessel’s
two unshrouded crew
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 9:10 AM UTC
Like the delirious rivers in spring
I am drowning in the arms of lilacs
and enjoying the purple dawns,
lavander happiness.
Snowdrops!
no need to be ashamed anymore.
I drink bottled dreams of eternity,
as suicide-bomber butterflies stir my veins.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 5:01 PM UTC
a black hand seller in mercato ballaro
with a fake-gold cross on his neck, proud on his face,
and grief on his back.
his proud is not because of his fake-gold cross
he takes for the Jesus ,swinging on his neck,
he landed from the sky
unlocks all the doors
a black hand seller in mercato ballaro
cannot forget some of 6200 black eyes
drowned
in the Mediterranean sea
and cannot say
the Mediterranean sea is not more beautiful
than 6200 black eyes
cannot say
no sea is more beautiful than 6200 eyes
and
it is useless to love dumb prophets
on the blind-windows of your souls
which not open out to us
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 9:20 AM UTC
my heart
like a small drunk boat
between two coves
with no oars,
like the the top of a match stick
ready to be lit
my heart
like a bustard
wandering on the mine fields of regrets,
like seagulls
lost on the fingers of
a fool poet
my heart
either will get lost on these flows
or resurrect on these ebbs
poems like no words
is my heart
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC