A warm wind touched my face.
I walked out into the open space,
I saw a blurry, fading horizon.
Somewhere, you are,
I am here, after a sleepless night,
Writing another reflection,
Tired like an empty battery.

I do not like the masks that shout.
The fight over who is right.
I do not want an analysis.
I touch the bark of the tree,
I hug the birch with my arms.
I see its white pages,
Written with irregular lines,
Torn, fluttering in the wind,
Which I cannot read.

Her eyes look straight into me,
They understand –
How well they understand me.
The rustle of leaves lessens the tension.
Autumn will come soon,
The summer wind whispers to me:
This country, this language,
These people, these doubts.

This is not blind luck,
This is your blessing,
Purple, rainy months, a fleshy heart,
Falling hair, joy when relief comes,
Crying into a pillow –
So as not to disturb another’s dreaming
About the so-called reality.

Bare feet touch the ground.
I tread carefully on the edge of worlds,
To be both here and there
With my integrity.
I am everything and nothing.
I am gestures, epilepsy,
The belief that I see human thoughts,
Inconsistent with what they say.

Blue, sun, and somewhere you.
How good that you stayed.
When everyone was saying:
She is different,
She talks to ghosts.
You stayed, showing me
Your true face.

Human beings trust
The sum of prejudices,
Blunt as rusty blades of limitation
Repeating the same mistakes,
Longing for infallibility,
Losing the last crumbs of trust.

They fell before
Yet wanted the absolute
Of the right version of events.
Sliding under a pile of tangled,
Broken wires,
Which were supposed
To build their impeccability
In judging other beings.

Water changes its state,
How easy to trudge
Further into the blurring
Instead of understanding,
They hurl accusations.

Dust of doubt,
On the empty road,
A rocky path
Perforated by frustration,
And rigid filters.

Drinking the last sip
Of wild screams,
They say goodbye
To gentle humanity,
Selling the heart
to detectors, fallible tools
Of elusive dreams.
Quo vadis domine?
In exitium.

I sat on the edge of the bed.
You smiled.
I am your daughter,
But words mean to you
Something else.

I took your hand,
Telling you I haven’t slept for a year.
I write reflections,
Tame the voices behind my left ear,
Assemble thoughts about the darkness.

I pour a warm, salty liquid
That burns the skin – it doesn’t moisturize.
It helps me,
This pseudo-therapy.
I hide behind my nickname,
So that no one holds me accountable
For what I’m supposed to be.

You also sat up at night,
You read books.
You carried hidden sadness,
I stick a smile on my lips.

I hug people who carry Egregores.
You and I,
we are not afraid of the night.
Your hand is cold.
You smile,
You put together syllables into strange words.

You know that I matter to you.
I pretend to understand
What you wanted to say.

In a moment, it will get hard.
You’ll start screaming like a little boy,
Or again you’ll wait
Until this state of life passes you.

Life?
It’s a kind of space
Where people, because of fear
Bite and scratch
Like frightened, rabid dogs –
And then soothe it
With controlled tenderness.

I sit with you on the edge of the couch
And I think:
We write with the left hand.
We are beings of the night.
Our path was shared –
In fear, to protect a small piece of “I”.

I fear I’ll lose language.
I desperately defend myself against silence.
I dream of non-human languages.
I write words as if I wanted
To cast spells on reality –
Still, it’s not enough.
The anesthesia stopped working.

One day, this will be the end,
Yet as long as I live,
I’ll be the naive one.
That’s what I want.

I choose sweet, sugar-coated hope,
With pink sprinkles,
Telling myself that he, she
Didn’t mean to trample –
Only life pushed them
Into that dark corridor.

My hope
Is not a soft blanket,
This is a heavy, tight helmet.

I dreamt this dream before I could speak it out loud,
Between the signifier and imperfect signified,
With all kinds of broken hours and promises never kept,
I tried transforming what was often said in the past.

This place would seem so real,
Made for me, trembling in the middle,
With small and growing earthquakes.
I wrote myself again—my little truths.

Looking for missing lines without wings,
Carrying stones inside my mind,
In tight, frayed bags from my beating heart,
without hope for a final insight.

Perhaps I just passed through the steam
Of a swirling, repetitive, chaotic dance,
Seeking tickets, carving an elusive imprint
With my mosaic in this human code.

Five minutes quietly slipped by.
My earned time vanished.
I had my moments going along the roadsides,
Avoiding the end of this poetic journey.

I stay wrapped in a heavy coat of suspicion.
I saw Moirés crafting another delusion.
I found a small reward in an addictive cliché,
To feel short relief from what I call my reality.

I remember what I did before,
Choosing every day not to cast a stone
Into the center of what I can’t grasp
With my breathing, human existence.
And this breath was enough.

Even something distant
Can give enough light,
Longer than just a while,
Carrying vivid, tender moods,
Rising like green plants,
Despite the cold, acid rain.

A hypnotic, sweet mantra,
A grateful murmur,
Whispered my true name,
Coming on time,
Before I closed the door.

I am at home now.
In a quiet zone,
On my piece of uneven,
Creaky floor,
Grounded by gravitation,
Free from messy thoughts,
Just to save the plumb line,
Not to collapse inward
Into an inner gap
Of what it should mean.

I shift my wardrobe
Of emotional scripts
To clean a tame mess,
Collected into short breaths,
Like colorful, sharp stamps,  
Justifying a fading reason to stay,
rather than give up and go away.

Yes, I know that I can.
So, what am I afraid of?
That I am ready
To drop the weight
Of past attachment,
To feel the lightness
Of being loved?
To accept human warmth,
Enfolding peacefully
A fractured existence.

This sound,
like a friendly wind,
walking through
my lost memories
from irreversibility,
from the cold reality
of indifference
returning to fulfilling promises
as an answer to my invocation

A unique, sweet sound
is calling me now,
after twenty-five years.
I bought that ticket,
sitting in my narrow seat,
holding in my hand
a piece of uncertainty
that deforms
every time I get on board.

I used to take so many trains:
traces, luggage, running passengers,
waiting, wasting minutes.
They brought me,
step by step,
station by station,
to this voice,
to this tone of being,
in tune with silver threads.

The windows are yet closed.
I carry in my cells
the code of Alef,
a crystalline illusion.

The lens caves in
and swells outward,
seeing the elusive past
still living in me,
playing under a different sun,
through elusive existences.

We came as twenty-one souls.
Twenty I found.
One was lost—
the one closest
to my breathing truth.

The final deal:
Am I losing
or will I rest
in deeper words?

Yes.
I did it for you,
changing alternative worlds,
pulsing around me,
invitations not accepted.

I open the gate
to a new home:
to warmth,
to creativity,
made by sweet recognition
of blooming Fall to come
waiting patiently
for your move
for your not-yet-published story.

All seems different,
like a blurry landscape
with vanishing maps.
The distance from the past
keeps growing.
I slice through space and time,
on the chosen path,
along a trajectory of circumstances.
Against the denial of access,
against the gate closing,
just to hold together what was apart.

So many colorful shards,
so many scattered books,
my Father left behind.

He connected the dots
with me, in space and time,
listening to the wind
when it was raining.

Absent and so close,
he used to say:
“Listen to what’s on the ground.
See what lifts us at night
when the birds go silent.”

He gave me more unrest,
he was the left hand
forced to write
with the right.

He believed in me
when the system
sent me away,
dismissed me.

He had hope
without medals,
standing steadfast
in the last row.

Now the body crumbles.
There is a memory
full of holes.
A counting echo—
he remembers,
he doesn’t,
it’s fine,
still hard
but his voice lives…

Time is blending
into a rusted chain
of events.
Tenderness,
resistance
to the falling apart
of departure.

He won’t come back.
He won’t recover.
The body is warm,
life doesn’t want to escape
the shrinking shell.

Sharp words cut helplessness.
Many nights still come
until the final return
to the embryonic state,
to point zero.

I am here,
into this deep night
being the witness to breath,
awake in the dark gentleness.

Thousands of eyes,
looking at my sleeping body.
After my false awakening,
I saw them,
still trapped in the dream.
They were recording
my every painful breath.

Eyes without eyelids,
dense, dark air.
I became an unexpected glitch
in the imposed system.
They just didn’t know
what to do with me.

The spiders around my bed
were watching over
the meaning of my existence.

I had only a deep need
to find a place
for all elements
of the broken vessel,
the black pupils,
the witnesses
to my faltering walk.

I am not yet a butterfly.
I am the caterpillar
in a long ego tunnel.

Thomas was right.

To heal,
I must keep going
and going
until all becomes
one seamless whole,
ready to transform
into a flying being,
free from the chain of wounds,
sacrificed
on the altar
of broken Ego.

I ended up at the wrong time,
in the wrong place,
carrying a dead flashlight
that instead of shining,
offered me an elusive shape—
a spectacle of shadows.

What was a hand
became a dog barking on the wall,
or a ghost-rabbit
vanishing into nothingness.

My rational “I” still asks why,
and I have no answer.
I just smile with sadness:
that was the script,
that had to happen.

Bittersweet medicine,
already swallowed,
the side effects dissolved.
And I boarded another train.

Writing?
I only wanted an ordinary life,
with some humor
and a pinch of self-irony.

Saturn joined,
Saturn divided,
at 8:18 a.m.

Maybe we humans
don’t have the stillness
to break free from the pattern
of silver rings
made of dust and ice,
imposed by an ego.

Maybe we prefer
the safety of the shadow,
ice melts in daylight.

My story:
a new-old flat,
my imperfect poems…
Really?
For this, I was made?

I’m not a poet.
I’m a living voice,
taming incomprehension
convincing myself
that dawn is near,
and I’m strong enough to rise,
not looking anymore
for cold mirrors.

You and I—
we feel,
we love,
we regret.
Yet we remain
the binding particle
of a formless self.

They divide us,
pit us against each other.
We found safety
for thirteen days.

Before dawn,
we felt the breath
that seeps through cracks
into minds like a narrow thread of force,
and the fog spilled out.

Above our heads, false stars
created by warm bodies
to annihilate
what passed through the gate
of a birthing woman.

We write words to conjure
happy endings
at the ball of extermination
that tears apart
the pulsing light
of a thousand veins.

Please sit with me
before you go
Do you feel it—
the mourning procession
of human beings
transforming into a state of fission
and drifting away?

And a sigh is so sad
of trembling atoms
when the victim becomes the destroyer.

Feel the force of the fall,
and do not shatter hope
even if the world
trembles to its core
because there is still YOU,
still ME,
and still

OTHERS.

fighting together—
cold white melts under warm sun
the truth bathes the lie

Osiem metrów wysokości.
Pośrodku szczelina.
Rzeźba dziecka z betonu
obok kontury ciała i pustka
po bezbronnej istocie,
której już nie ma.

Szorstka struktura szarości
rani delikatną skórę.
Głód. Choroby. Samotność.
Świat zapomina o tych,
co nie krzyczą głośno—
o tym co najbardziej boli:
o miażdżonej niewinności,
i olbrzymach pilnujących
orszak przestraszonych wielkich oczu
w małych, wychudzonych ciałach.

Pamięć nie jest wygodna.
Ona fizycznie boli.
Uparte rany nie goją się.
Było.
Jest.
Wije się w sąsiednich otchłaniach Tartaru.

Aksjomat przyjęty przez aklamację:
„Tak ma być!”

Cisza.

Na scenę wychodzi syn ocalałego.
Łamiącym się głosem szepcze:
Tata przeszedł piekło, ale kochał nas.
Przeżył, napisał pamiętniki.
Dał świadectwo.
Rozumiał ten wykolejony świat.


BROKEN HEARTS

Eight meters high.
A crevice in the center.

A concrete sculpture of a child
and the deep void.
Once there was another child,
now gone without a trace…

The rough grey texture
hurts fragile skin.
Hunger. Disease. Loneliness.

The world forgets
those who do not scream
and what hurts the most:
crushed innocence
guarded by the giants
watching the procession
of terrified wide eyes
in small, gaunt bodies.

Memory is not a peaceful place,
it brings physical pain.
It gnaws from underneath.

Stubborn,
festering wounds,
they refuse to heal.

It was.
It is.
It will happen again
by axiom,
accepted without question.

That is how it must be.

Like a venomous snake
slithering near the lands of Tartarus.
Endless sacrifice, leaden silence.

And then, the son of the survivor takes the stage.
He speaks in a whisper:

My Father went through hell, but he loved us.
He wrote it down—
a testimony of a derailed world.

He knew what it meant to be human
when it hurt.

He survived to love and to be loved.

Every day, I open my reality:
I wake up.
I feel.
I choose.
I decide—
knowing so many others
are crying behind the scenes,
and their trembling is raw.

Pain isn’t consolation—
it reinforces the structure of fragility
when the towers are crumbling.

At the core, we return,
squeezing black-and-white struggles
into our veins, into our memories.

To the only home
we never left
our own body.
The first and the last.

Carrying my truth.
I stand by my views,
watching through
my weakening gaze.

After a raging storm,
making peace with myself,
I vanish into the air,
my convictions fold with me.

Without simple answers,
wearing the new lens,
I see another world:
not clearer,
not wiser,
not safer,
…
just slightly shifted.

How could I shield myself from the words
that lift me into the highest lowness?
Dearly beloved, raw openness,
the source of my grace and imperfection.

I feel strangely weightless
when my precognition
whispers to me about my possible future.
I hush all my names,
they’re not statues carved
by the thoughts of others.

I watch people drift in and out,
I touch the tree leaves in the cold wind.
Looking tenderly into the eyes of black ravens
I just try to see what they see.

I don’t fear the dark,
the primal womb that gives light
and birth to worlds spread across space.
Losing someone I love is my only fear.
Death comes uninvited, in its own time.

Love is my helpless, naked truth.
My moral compass still works
in my body.
At night, I find sleep and rest.
In light, the warmth,
and the souls of others.

I see the tired hearts
I find solace, looking into the light.
The body brings fleeting fullness.
I gather the crumbs of mystery,
expecting nothing,
just enough to find my dignity
and make peace with the unreachable.

Is this water still water
in the photo taken a moment ago,
or is it reflecting the sky
in a dark mirror of wishes,
drifting through the mind?

Do the thoughts wear the words?
Do they embrace stillness and truth?
There is no single pattern to interpret.
Alternative facts appear credible.

What was predictable, a sweet certainty,
became a distant mirage of memories,
touching softly reality and its interpretations,
sealed tightly in the crystal bottle,
sinking slowly into oblivion without regrets.

Canceled words are so infinite and quiet,
bringing a deep indigo relief,
inexpressible and so beautiful.
No doubts. No screams.
Just a peaceful self-reconciliation.

An emotional wind,
just to clear the daily fields,
to ask a moment after,
with childish tenderness.

They have a soul
like an old building,
with a million windows,
and one locked door.

They are so different,
more than a straight line.
They save the world,
seeing, feeling, not less.

Not a doctoral degree,
no frame that fits.
Perhaps don’t read the words,
they think beyond two and one.

They burn the dinner,
tangled in their inner world.
Flickering light, voice—
A scratch of structure is too much.

States of agitation,
flow of information,
and the beautiful creatures,
make sense without logic.

They give to this dimension
more than they’ll ever know.
Paradox in the crowd,
unclassified,
a blessing for society,
yet invisible.

A strange, dense, heavy word.
Once, graceful and noble
or it seemed to be
until I used it too much.
I know that something fails,
that I’m losing its huge potential.

If I pronounce it aloud
it doesn’t shine anymore for me
in the tiny corners of my mind.
It lingered awkwardly, repeating
“I’m here!”.

The tangled threads
imposing new interpretations.
The materializing weight of sounds.
It's a bitter pill to swallow,
but I know the side effects.

The lightness of the feather
turns into a red brick.
When it hits me,
my inner calm ceases to exist.

I’m struggling to rationalize,
to be more tolerant.
And I just ask myself:
if I truly believe,
why do I say it?

The word so needed,
so loved,
in the silence,
in conviction,
in the presence of no absence.

Something authentic,
wasn’t it meant to be spoken?
So sinister…
it builds and destroys.

The word,

the idea

of




TRUST...

After the pain of the human body,
silence arrives,
not good, not bad,
just without noise,
without splendid glory,
filled with unfinished thoughts
of those who loved or were loved.

Crossing through an amorphous gate,
their material vessels vanish slowly
in the rotting smell,
inevitable deconstruction
in the same irreversible order.

The red liquid comes back
to the primordial elements,
to Earth, to Air, to Void,
everything and nothing.

We who are still breathing,
create new interpretations
to be more distant than close
to the elusive insight.

Clearing our space
we put various convictions
in our grief drawer, suffering,
looking for consolation—
against the final revelation.

The cosmic conscious dust
returns to the circle of life.
Does it matter what comes after?
Just stay now,
open your arms,
embrace a tender emptiness.

For a moment,
I dive into juicy greenness.
The wind blows the leaves outside.
Today, the air is colder
than it was a few days ago,
when the warmth of the sun was so gentle.

I’m sitting, watching the faces of the youth.
They take their first exam,
a threshold to unknown adulthood.
Under the rules,
imposed by the faceless authorities,
which are as tight as windowless hallways.

I don’t envy them for being young.
I observe them with tender affection.
I pray silently for them
that the world:
won’t laugh at their dreams
won’t hurt their first love
won’t mock their faith

Their belief
they can change every despotic system.
They rise like green promises
of a better future.

It isn’t easy to walk, gravity weighs.
The biosuits lock the mind
in a narrow space.

An interpretive blow is crucial:
Does being on the other side of the mirror
truly want it, or only think it does?

A thumb drives into the right temple.
The heart pumps hectoliters of warm liquid.
Colours, sounds, tensions in the eternal swirl.

Delay in processing—eighty milliseconds
it isn’t a flaw.
It takes that long for all the cogs to turn.

Everything I do now is already in the past.
Decisions made long ago spit me out
into this reality with some name.

I am the last, but not least,
in the collective dream and blink of time.

Minds sway like golden grain, ready to be cut.
I can stand up or lie on the ground.

I walk—
toward the next stumble,
the next wound, and maybe healing.

Insights glow like yellow lanterns,
giving me some light.

No justification, no understanding.
My self-awareness is not a cozy couch.

One day,
I will stop existing, and I accept that.
I’m just afraid to leave those who still love me.

Yes, no, I don’t know.
I have only this conviction.
Talking to myself,
something says:
Breathe, don’t look, just fly…

No, don’t go! Stay a while!
Just a second here
and there
it would be a couple of solar years!

Now, you’re not a fish,
You can’t dive into this seductive,
endless abyss. Watch out!

You are a little human
wanting to cross another line,
not to die!

Just one step,
don’t look down!
Your footing—
a necessity of evolution.

Brown buttons everywhere,
like micro decisions
denying free will.

Buzzing sounds from nowhere
imbue air and chords,
so many chords
without a clear solution.

What am I doing?
My assumptions collapse.
Another transformation?

Memory came back
as crumpled paper.
But now,
I have no questions.
I know who I am.
I knew it from the core of my bones.

My awareness
suspended on the tightrope,
it drags forward.

Everything that is born
is born with a piercing sound.
So, I accepted the invitation.

They come with lofty thoughts,
burning away caring hearts,
melting down steel in the forge of Hephaestus:
individuality, critical thinking.

Carving the stone with faint whispers,
then with audacious, arrogant songs.
Words offer a sinister image of meaning,
multiplied by lost hopes, by longing.

The green-eyed monster walks,
hand in hand with the vicious chants,
muddling the calm of deep waters,
vanishing beliefs of solidarity.

Saying goodbye to tender softness,
giving away our pieces to the abstract,
cutting and throwing into non-existence
what once felt stable, what was given.

With grudge and pain, setting up barbed wire
for what was done in the past.
Passing by, you can’t shout
still, you need to defend yourself.

Looking deeply into eyes, we could
touch the essence, written in the gaze,
to read between the words, hidden stories,
but it’s already forbidden.

How difficult it is to truly accept,
with an open mind, an open heart,
in this cloudy, dense air of misleading stories

Another Human.

Kindness without a hidden agenda
Intelligence without *******
Authenticity without promotion
It sounds like sabotage these days
Or a new form of emotional cyberattack.

Loved or needed—needed or loved?
Does it still deserve to be a question?
This doubt will never be erased
from the human language.
It burns from inside
reducing plans to ash.

Do they seek to heal their broken thoughts,
or do they want to stay in hidden safety?

It’s unclear how to love all the sketches
made by routines, invisible seconds,
trivial matters
picked out from life
like slimy red, blue, and golden fish,
slipping through cold, wet fingers.

Existence as a heap of doubts
punched by blinding moments
bringing elusive clarity
that dims and flares again and again.
Needed or loved.
Loved by need,
an unbreakable union
without a sigh,
without rhythm
as a sharp dissonance.

I remember being here.
Hours trapped in the little orange grains of dust.
I recognize these voices, I know their names.
I saw these words replaying in slow motion.

Like in a perpetual motion machine
designed to heal and be healed.
I came to this place after many missed chances
finding my redemption, to see all over again.

Whenever I embrace more flashbacks
from past lives, from past sighs
settling on the broken glass like gentle steam
I feel so quietly completed.

I hide myself in invisible arms
loved many times before,
feeling that I am close to touching my infinity.
Why am I so sure this is the right path?

When I open the boxes of hidden riddles
with keys given by the ethereal glimpses
I know that I return now to the golden core,
to the beginning of everything.

Divide and conquer, deride compassion.
Indulgent resentment exposes the actions.
Wolves dressed as lambs, lambs as wolves.
Nobody believes in good ideas.

Craft deceptive reasons behind the words of love.
Stuff your victims into the dark, cramped box.
Do your work quietly, with discipline.

When the red moon rises
the energy of broken breaths
strengthens your existence.
Illusory peace as a weary sigh.

You laugh
when they try to unmask your behavior
Whispering: just another pathetic attempt
of hysterical souls, not pragmatic solutions.

Different actors, new stages.
You’re always the same,
Irresistible.

When we were leaving our place
I turned back for a moment,
I wanted to see it one last time.
The forest pulsing with dense life.

The first whisper
of Ambrorella’s blooming,
bitter fruit plucked
when we were hungry.

It was then I felt, for the last time
the false peace
of a sated animal.

I closed my eyes
and when I opened them
nothing was the same as before.

I remember,
You held my hand.
I was never just your rib,
I have always been your equal.

You didn’t resent me
for not wanting to live in illusion.
And so, our awareness began to grow.

I took the fruit
and I wasn’t the reason for our fall,
we just saw the world as it is.

I feel complete,
despite the pain that moved through my body
and still, it remains.
When all seems to die or to be born
I carry the warm living light.

Above us:
Wrong time,
wrong place.

For now, it’s safer
keeping our secrets.
Tension builds,
and in just a bit
it will all pour out.

Don’t look into my eyes
if you don’t want to share your story.
With every gaze, the gap is closing.

Something unvoiced is flowing.
The pendulum sways.
Is there life left?
Is it still a warm place,
or an illusory glow?

If you don’t want to let someone
into your territory,
please turn your head,
turn your eyes.

Seeing right through, you betray
who you were
and who you became.