On the land where solitude walks,
Its silence has an abyss.
What might change
By breaking it
The vow of silence broken.

Goats fallen into the ravine
Their blood on the rocks,
Every moment is dangerous,
A herald of death,
A goat lying down
To rest on the rocky hill,
Hidden from land predators.

"Plant a tree,"
says Mother,
"If you can't find a friend like yourself,
a book will be your friend."
But that is not enough.

Sometimes, as Houellebecq would say,
we want to be in someone or the opposite,
constantly desired, we just need the right person.

Sometimes it feels like I live inside my own head
Until I step outside,
Look at people,
Listen to their conversations.

We often think that one person cannot change anything
But we’re mistaken,
One often decides,
In most cases.

The wind flutters your black cloak,
You smoke a cigarette
With a hand frozen from the cold,
The red fragments of your heart
Are piled beneath your feet,
You’re going nowhere
Because of your love’s hold.

I still love you.
You loved my body,
The dark side of my heart.
I lost you,
My tear-streaked glasses.
I still love you.

Life will destroy us if we surrender, if we let people deeply into our hearts, they will hurt us. Let us turn our backs on all the arrogant!

Do not turn on the light, for you will scare away
the evil forces that have entered your home,
forces that sing.
And perhaps Satan does not exist,
if evil itself does not exist.
Then there will be no God to protect us,
and perhaps God has abandoned us
because there is evil in this world.
We have angered them all together,
nourishing the soil with human flesh and blood.
I must drink wine
to forget my rotten life.

A black heart full of pain,
cold as white stone
in winter,
like a swan’s sorrowful song
at life’s end,
turns to ashes within its shell,
and perhaps, gripped by similar sorrow,
this part of the body forever seeks
another like itself.

He entered a filthy room,
placed a black *** on the fire,
satisfied his hunger,
lit a cigarette,
took off his rubber boots,
lay down on a mattress spread on planks,
turned on the radio,
opened a newspaper,
and felt helpless,
Tears welled up.

Our bodies
Real,
Painful,
Beautiful,
Sometimes beautifully ugly,
We wither,
Age,
Shrink,
What matters is to accept them as they are
Or fight for how
We want them to be,
Our souls merge with each other,
While our bodies, intertwined like branches,
Bodies seek love.

An abandoned green tea plantation,
Entwined with wild, thorny blackberry branches.
A snake is coiled around them.
A child watches,
Thinking whether to go closer or not.
This scene feels like a fairy tale,
Something you cannot see every day...
Where enchanting serpents slither,
Mesmerizing in their beauty,
Hidden through the winters,
Seeking warmth,
In a magical world, brimming with cunning.

Fly away black bird,
perhaps you’ll encounter a carcass
or someone kind
will offer it to you.
You’ll hide in the dry bushes with food,
Your black feathers will flutter in the wind,
satisfied and full,
your body
will heavily descend again to the ground.

I was simply singing,
watching red poppies
in the field,
thinking of nothing,
just remembering
the sea of my childhood,
as Banville does
in his book.
How pleasant it is,
even in winter,
to hear the murmur of the sea.

We are as moral
as we are able to be,
just never forget the principles.

During travel,
I love looking at the mountains,
the roads lit with lamps,
simply staying with myself,
sleeping,
reading, for example Lessing,
the world seen from the window, the houses,
the human trace in these houses.

I wear black clothes.
The world is dark for me,
I notice bloodstains on the snow,
Someone has been sacrificed to death again,
The gate of evil does not close.
My heart is as dark as a black cloud,
Perhaps one day I will no longer wake up,
I will vanish into eternity.

Somewhere far away
meadows,
a small spring,
the sound of a lyre,
smiling people.

In cornfields,
peasants working.

I searched for a medicinal herb.

The one we feared
In our deep childhood,
That filthy one hurt us.
A child is never wrong.
Let us never forgive
Our tears.

Black dreams

Never scared me.

Kubin's mystical dreams mean nothing.

Once, I used to gaze at the dark moon,
I wandered through the abyss,
I saw the snake’s skin,
My heart was not this dark,
I felt more love,
I read Beddoes,
Everything has grown colder.

You entered my kitchen,
a magnificent, radiant light.
I wanted to say magical words,
but I couldn’t dare.
I loved you,
You said nothing,
but made me feel
that you understood my pain.

We often strive to create something great, but end up with garbage!
We feel disappointed in ourselves because we fail to astonish ourselves and others.
That's why we must not stop trying and practicing patience we should fight and improve the quality of our goal-setting.
In the end, something will come out of it, we just mustn't give up.
But also know this: someone will always appear and say disparagingly, "Whose trash is this?"

I remember my mother’s tears,
when I had a cruel illness.
If I hadn’t seen her tears,
I probably wouldn’t have recovered.

Silence deepens within me like a black rock,
when scientists discovered that even plants speak in their own language.
My silence remains silent, like a thorned rose untouched by anyone.
Only I know the depths of that rock, the breath of the rose’s silence.
And my black heart,
my breath of stone,
which is terrifying like the portrait of  Gray, weighed down by its gravity.
my hands that cross in sleep, protecting me from loneliness.
Oh, my silence,
my silence,
silence,
dark silence,
shrouded in mystery,
you, yourself, within your own being.

When you read a poem from another era,
where certain themes were forbidden,
it feels as though the author died in that moment,
unable to express the words exactly as they wanted.

It’s a cold day, sunless,
I took a walk outside,
The chill reaches down to the bones,
People move swiftly by.
Markets are bustling,
Prices on products
Are already high.

I feel how you touch your body,
like the gentle melting of ice in spring.
I'll tell you the story of Scheherazade,
and together we'll listen to Antar.

Our graves were in kurgans,
Our shelter was in caves,
We painted on rocks,
We warmed ourselves with animal fur,
We hunted,
We perceived beauty less,
We sang with howls,
We slept together,
What we thought about, only God knows.

I’ve been listening to trash techno since morning, I need energy.   the last month of autumn, So enjoy this damp warmth, those who love it.
I bought a very warm coat for winter,
I’ll probably only wear it at a resort.

I watch as the wind stirs my black curtain,
it’s 20:09.
I’m cooling my green tea.

Today, I’ll probably plan nothing,
sudden decisions unsettle me.

But as Kafka would say, perhaps once, by our actions, we should surprise ourselves and others, even if it’s just an impulsive stroll…

From the windows of the building across, silhouettes can be seen in the light,
it’s the loveliest stretch of summer.

Google Assistant is reminding me that my birthday is coming up, I'm turning 34, and this age doesn't make me happy anymore. It especially annoys me when people call once a year just for this and don't think of me the rest of the time.

You wear a long black coat,
your hair falls over your shoulders,
You  have  Chloe perfume.
Your life simply isn’t like anyone else’s,
you never wanted to be someone else.
You drink white semi-dry wine.
You have everything,
maybe that’s why you’re alone.
You read Agota Kristof,
you don’t smoke and you work out.
You are sad,
and everyone like you is sad.

Not much thing makes me happy,
often just a connection with nature suffices.
I watch the trees on a windy day,
I see your photo.
Not much thing makes me happy,
just the thought of your existence
is enough, yet you are never enough.
You sow so many feelings within me,
sometimes I even hate you.
A dim light fills my room,
but my heart never dims.
Not much thing makes me happy,
I think you know this too.

I got cold.
This cold, as always, caused sleep paralysis,
Being in complete darkness.
Today I was thinking, as on other days,
About you.
Thinking of you causes white pain.
I would probably compare myself to Orpheus,
Who sings to Eurydice,
I would look back never to see you again.
sleep paralysis,
Evil that unfolds within us.

In a maddened world that has taken root within us, we are poisoned, poisoned by the selfishness of leaders for whom no dose of calming medicine can be found.

For some reason, very wealthy people think they’ll impress us. I remember when I was eighteen, a member of the middle class. A wealthy person invited my friend and me to see their home.

Everything seemed revolting: leather furniture, glossy floors, brown tones everywhere, dark crimson velvet curtains, and that standard coffin-like smell of oak. We talked, but I didn’t eat anything I didn’t even feel like it. In general, I can’t eat around people, filling my stomach without the desire to feels absurd, and I can’t eat in a crowd.

We went outside to smoke, and the host said, “Come on, let me show you the second floor.” But we refused. He was so surprised that he couldn’t hide his reaction his face practically asked, “Who do you think you are?” His expression didn’t surprise me at all.

He drove us home in his huge Land Rover, speaking to us harshly. I still run into him sometimes on the street. Now, it’s me who’s surprised he has little left to show.

the sparrows to stay with us,
winter is coming
I want to be real
this winter,
Love me,
The snow is resting on the roof.
the fall of ice sheets.
Shine in me
like a lighthouse in the night.

I woke up early today. I have a lot to do: handwritten texts to type up on the computer. But I’m feeling lazy even the thought of lifting a finger for this work feels like a chore, even though it’s paid.

In one sentence, I came across a thought on realism it said, “How real are we?” I think we might actually have a chance to be real.

Concrete trees,
buildings and houses.
A world covered by concrete,
it became a barren, empty place.

We brought saplings of trees,
radiant peach, apple.
We nurtured them, they bore divine fruit.
I wanted to export them, but in vain,
says the farmer from Gori to the journalists.

I cut them all down, cut them down to save my time and nerves.
I cried,
and the trees shed tears as well.
I destroyed the fruit of Eden.

I used to write by hand, but I don't anymore because I kept losing my diaries. I lost my first diary back in school, my teacher told me, 'I'll read your poems,' and then the diary disappeared. I was too shy to say, 'Please give me my diary.' Now I have a tablet, and I always leave it at home.

Spring seems to have died,
I’m inhaling the scent of rotten lilacs.
I taste the chocolate you brought me...
Drunk, I smoke a cigarette,
but I can’t feel it.
I drag my feet lightly on the road, slamming the rough soles of cowboy boots.
I cry,
I want something that doesn’t exist in nature,
something immaterial.
I can still feel your cold hand on my shoulder.

It's absurd to claim that I don’t place my slippers by the bed every day. They’re always there, untouched, just as I left them. But still, I’ve wondered before waking up, will they be there where I left them?

Uncontrolled dreams overwhelm me,
Last night, I dreamed of you, my friend.
Even in the dream, you kept insisting
That you like older women.
I told you, You’re a true gerontophile,
Just like me after all, I married a 48-year-old man years ago.
The amazing thing is,
If I could choose
I’d still make the same choice.
You said, “I love it when my women wear glasses
With clear lenses.”
Ah, what a jokester you are, my friend.
Our dreams bring us closer…

You stand by your black grotesque Mercedes, it's hot, your skin burns in the sun.
You're calling me.
Today I must leave you -
I know I'll go home, write a long letter, say goodbye to you.
Summer for me is a period of solitude.
I love being in the shadow of scorching summer trees, in the cold walls of a room.

Clergymen live in luxury, I wrote to them, asking what they think about the idea that Satan might punish them for it if God doesn't have time. They blocked me.

I always wanted to have a white dress like Emily Dickinson's, and if I could, I would never leave my room.