At work, I loved to read,
I had a small salary,
But I had the chance
To read books.
I found my inspiration
In William Blake and his painting of Death on a Pale Horse
Time has passed, but my heart has not grown cold toward them.
Now I’m reading J. M. Coetzee,
Smoking more cigarettes,
Enduring the summer heat.
Perhaps somewhere in the West,
There’s a woman who resembles me...

When do we come alive? When love, true and everlasting, comes to us. It's like rain arriving in the desert. If you feel the sickness of love, it means you're alive...

The possibilities of humans are limitless,
All the goodness that intelligent minds offer us is immeasurable.
I often call them gods—
I worship the book—
I worship the hacker who managed to cleanse my computer from a dark virus.
You would be a liar if you’ve never once worshipped someone or something.
Now I drink wine,
I recall Dionysus,
Or I simply thank the winemaker for the beautiful wine.

I place my slippers by the bed,
Hoping I’ll wake up to find them where I left them,
I do this over and over, feeling the same.

Habits, feelings are ours—
Our manners when we open a beer can or simply glance at something, someone.
No one can change our behaviors,
Though we might imitate another's manner for a while,
Like the weather, never repeated,
We can't become someone else.

An actor brought a book character to life,
But in my mind, they remained different.

As the years pass, we betray our habits,
Just as our altered bodies betray us,
Yet mannerism still dwells within us.

Red roses planted in a filthy ravine,
For the bliss of passersby.
Brought there by witches –
Visually stunning,
Left at the mercy of rain,
Blooming red.
The wise will say it is in honor of the mortals –
While the lowly will glance with irony,
Their eyes deceitful.
Just as Venus embodies perfect beauty,
Red creations have emerged in this filthy place,
Tender roses, the ravine’s charm.

When we lie, our hands sweat, and we can't dry them until we touch someone else.

We choose the dusty street  
Because we want to notice  
The specks of dust sparkling in the sun.  
We wish to rest  
Leaning against cold, Gothic walls,  
Yearning to enter closed houses.  
Often, beautiful words are not amazing—  
Especially when we witness tragedy.  
Who wrote our poems?  
With wondrous words, though they do not resemble us.  
We protect trees from pests with paint, yet no one protects us.  
The wooden planks of deceit are finely planed,  
Yet we hear the deafening drumbeat—  
While the quiet serenity of the lyre reaches us.  
When we burn dried grass on the bonfire,  
We find comfort in the smell of the charred grass.