I try to taste your warmth.
I want to understand
the silence
that fills your outstretched heart.

I know that the world
is close to
my desires.
I remember that the tenderness
returns when we talk about
tomorrow again.

The peace that only your passion
could give me spreads within me.
I am so close to your emotions,
I feel the sweet balast
of your words,
unnecessarily whispered.

I hide my face behind a curtain
of tears, anticipating the return
of the present.
Come, melancholy, find in me
the way back to the world.

Introduce me to the sky
that until now was exclusively yours.
I love your illusions, I appreciate
the hallucinations
behind which no hint of sadness,
no moment of freedom lurks.

The tenderness of your sad hands
seals my fear.
The proximity of sleep
makes me want to walk away
to the other side of the shadow.

I am so close to your desires
that silence boasts of its existence.
I do not want you
to fall in love
with my pregnant tears - introduce me
to the era for which
I would rather stay here.

My sky falls asleep
in your sunny embrace,
corporeality becomes a naive dream.
Sometimes I would like to open
my heart and get out of
this hermitage, but I know
that no horizon
will bear my weight.

It is only a tear focused on itself.
A shard of pain
that fills the emptiness in my soul.
My heart blooms in me,
soon it will bear forbidden fruit.

I remain susceptible to kisses,
to exquisite meetings of bodies.
I'm enjoying
the uncertainty here.

I have lost the continuation
of this too naive storm.
I have sunk into
a madness
that no one understands
except the suffering.

My hands, bound by
the petrified air,
can await the coming tomorrow,
smiles that do not match reality.

There's a hole growing
inside me
that doesn't lead to any light
at the end of the tunnel.

Stripped of your kisses, robbed of
the fertile caresses
of the wind,
I willingly clash with your senses,
with enslaved memories
for which I could go into
the unknown.

Come to me, my charming silence,
prove that my soul
belongs to someone else.
I am choking on an hour, thoughtlessly
conceived at the wrong time.

I fight with the longing
that belongs to
my loneliness.
I cannot dream too gladly.
Incarnate hope clings
to the too low ceiling
of the moon.
I have an excuse to be born again.

The night, sealed by your silent cry
for solitude, disintegrates into
missing elements.

The day, which has come as usual
at the wrong time,
does not fit into the sky here,
it clashes with
the hard-to-digest hour.

I count your sins, even though
I know that future
will find your lost destiny.

Your thoughts are pure,
and your desires are even more beautiful,
which I try to fulfill despite
the black roads that fawn on
worn feet.

I do not understand the shouting
of the crowd, I do not remember
who showed me the way back.

My tears, although white, empty
and long overgrown,
today carve a broken lifeline.
I seek inspiration
among your memories,
I long for hope that shimmers
in the green abyss of your gaze.

I do not want my longing
to disturb anyone.
I refuse to let tomorrow evening
consume me.

These are the moments when a merciful
sleep reveals itself
to a delightful night.

These are the hours when a star,
condemned to the pity
of its own shadow, loves hypocrisy,
delights in a desire that brings
nothing new.

You still wear my body - you forget
how many paths it has taken
to get stuck on this side of loneliness.

I am not a wish
that comes true when we forget.
Is it freedom that makes
a person die
in the middle of a sentence?

Is it sleep, stolen from God,
that makes us like our own tears?
I'm trying to soothe
your fickle heart.
I want to shine, enough so
that distance deprives me
of faith in heaven.

Quite by accident I encountered
your touch, it is still too immature
for me to regain a lost whisper,
to cry out a prayer.

My tears are frozen. Even sadder
words that no one deserves.

Sorry, there is not a single homeless
river lurking nearby.
God does not walk around,
staring at the space at His feet.

The bird of my melancholy
has perched on the border between
life and heaven;
a branch bends, the last boulder
breaks away from the ground.

Air spreads within me, a breath
of freshly renovated sky - I will find
an antidote
to an overly noisy thought.

Sleep will never be
reconciled with night.
Your tears are so uncertain of my lips,
so vast that the soul stops
in mid-question.

What good are the answers if they
are so stereotypical?
What good are people if hope
has settled in the corner
of the mouth?

Or maybe a surfeit of tenderness
makes me dare to love in vain?
Is it fear that prevents you
from living emphatically?

Stars of this evening are silent.
The Moon is noiseless, late for its own
thirtieth birthday.

Unwritten, endless poems
hurt the most.
Thoughts, barely begun, are associated
with a life that has begun
too hastily.

I am here, close to memories
of future - I do not have the strength
to lift my own shadow,
to deliberately end my sleep.

I am your sleepy doubt, pride -
the stars boast.
Or maybe pity will make hatred
fall silent, shouted over
by the silence?

Would fear make me stronger
than memory?
Solitude deprived of life
is merely a vestibule to the garden,
to the orchard, where apple trees
die in the middle of summer,
forbidden fruit grows.

I stole from you the last morsel
of conscience, a sip of prayer -
painful, infinite.

I will never encounter this irony again,
this light quite unresurrected.