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.

I dwell on thoughts,
I examine the sum of my experiences,
Sometimes, I spit out extreme emotions.
I search in vain for something common.
I observe the struggles of all conscious beings,
looking for a universal language
that unites rather than divides.
I know…
I won't be able to ...
I won't find...

Has everything already been said or written?
Fortunately, the sun is still there,
watching over me.
Its light always finds its way
to attract my soul like a magnet
calming gently
agitated states of consciousness…

We are dreaming—
you and I,
and perhaps she, maybe he.

Thinking that blissful encounter
has taken place,
shaping us like a sweet
and gentle morning breeze

Never again will any rejection
cause pain,
because that appointment
has taken place.

Blessed are those who have met
and blessed are those who
still wait,
in the state of sweet elevation.

To close emotions tightly?
A broken mosaic,
it’s hard to fix.
It's better not to risk another fall.

Tears are gone,
the eyes are empty,
like a vast desert,
with blue-black flashes of memory,
hitting him out of control.

Life appears and disappears
in the cells of the body.
Emotions?
He can't feel it anymore.
There’s too much pain.

When the last wound heals,
he will pass through life
as a New Automatic Person.
Anesthetized to all sensations,
Although deep down,
he would like to feel
something again.

I will never taste
that exquisite flavor.
You are immersed
in language,
while I admire,
from my balcony,
your collocations,
your state of being,
expressed with juicy metaphors
that will never be mine,
even though I long for them.

I build bridges in the wind
strange in form.
I can offer nothing that
my sincerity and passion,
torn rather than beautifully woven.

Thank you for stopping by
reading them with wonder.
Please think warmly of me
if I fail to ignite your intellect.
I came to experience
I am a freed soul,
finding words in a foreign tongue.
I reconstruct myself
between the lines.

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.

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.

I won’t look into your eyes,
you don’t see mine.
We don’t hear our voices.
Our trust will never be whole.

My thoughts flow too fast to catch;
language is limited.
I’m a small, whispering brook
in a forgotten forest.
Your reflections are vast oceans
that you tame like wild animals.

Here I am, a foreigner among concepts.
I want to know the truth about who I am,
but my tired hands and heavy head,
no longer work as they did before.

You asked for an opinion.
But how could I give one?
I’m behind cold glass,
trying to piece together flashbacks
of who I was just an hour ago.

This world is so unpredictable, frenetic.
I see people everywhere,
their plans left at the bus stop,
driven by the will to survive.
An addictive vortex of emotions draws us in
as fears fuel the planned chaos.

We are living now in the mirror world.
Everything is reversed.
Here, the victims must apologize
to their oppressors.

How could I speak to them about peace and values?
I try to offer a simple smile to cheer up,
to keep my mind sane.
I’m a silent voice in rough waters.

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.

Three wheels:
The past and the future contain today.
I’ve forgotten what I wanted.
What mattered slipped away quietly.
I’m seeing the particle of bliss
in the fulfilled gaze of the women
from the old photograph.

Enigmatic smiles,
on tired faces.
How do they do it?
The apparent peace with
the fleeting triumph of lightness.
I would like to take off all my desires,
to find a moment of mental rest
but my valley of thoughts is still waiting
for my own,
a long-awaited miracle.

A cuddle cat thinks she’s soft and kind.
But eating alone in quiet loss, not drinking tender bliss
immersed in sharp sounds, her fur is raised.

The time is not flowing, the time is slowly drowning.
Big eyes disoriented, needing mutation
in epileptic convulsions, knowing
that the weak animals might be consumed.

Dressed in costumes, movements of grace,
gestures she studied with caution, acting out the play.

Now she seems to be a Black Panther
the secret is kept, nobody sees her.
Every role comes at a cost.

Like a pit spit out, the flesh devoured,
no sweetness remains, only the hardened shells.
Welcome invisibility! She’s not prey anymore.

The last totem is her salvation.
The deep-sea-clam, she feels so safe  
bathed by the shape of cold water.

In troubled times, eruptions split the sky.
When the two cosmic lines converge,
the technological order unveils itself.

The cycle repeats in another scene,
endlessly turning.
Don’t lend it your memories, Ulisses.

The door of the Panopticon is crossed.
The glass, soundless, shatters.
Tomorrow dissolves into a quantum chance,
screaming conflicting images.

Don’t be lost in lonely silence.
Let go of melancholy.
Come back home, to the real people,
where hope lingers despite the inky fog.
There, you will feel better.

I trace the sign of infinity
against the window
with my fingertips.

The cold, transparent glass
reflects the distant lights.
The evening city moves so fast,
and time seems to slow down.

Yet this disturbing reflection
lingers in my mind.
I have been living in this town for years,
feeling as if I’m not really here,
in reality.

Somewhere unknown,
behind my eyes
unspoken nostalgia
softly calls to me,
drawing ever closer
like a friend
who knows me best,
who truly sees me as I am.

What is it that I long for so deeply?
What kind of truth do I seek to reveal?
I feel whole in this human existence
but an irrational voice murmurs:
This is not your place,
not your time.

Maybe I feel like this
because,
one day, by chance
I left my body in pain
touching infinity
and I sensed freedom
beyond the weight of human doubt?

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.