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

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.

Sandcastles,
Collapsing like our dreams.
At the end of the night,
We feel the chill of dawn.

Draw a silent fish,
With water gathered in its mouth.
Victims of our surroundings,
We follow the earth,
Cracked like it.

In the sand of mistakes,
A mother brews Turkish coffee.

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.

Feed the earth flesh,
So it may be fertile.
We eat carrion
It sounds revolting!

Do not close the coffin doors,
I have fears.
Don't bury my hands,
Let the animals eat them
For we eat them,
It sounds revolting.

Dead trees will come to life again.

I want to listen to the playlist I used to play before, when I would carelessly throw thousands of music tracks into love, connecting with another world, traveling through it, finding the people I had lost, and telling them what I couldn’t say back then.

I would reread Mauriac, Hesse, and every book I’ve ever read.

I would relive those feelings, the initial emotions when I first discovered Francesca Woodman’s photography.

I would go back to that café I used to frequent, where I would sink into sadness, have something to drink—even though I neither drank nor smoked back then.

I would find a small dimension for myself, just as I wanted, to escape sorrow. I would shelter myself there for a few years and return with a clear mind—free.

Once, a poet told me a story
about a charming girl
who received compliments from everyone,
But one day, her cousin arrived
someone even more beautiful.
The girl’s beauty faded into the shadows.
She grew despondent.
Her mother told her,
“When sadness visits you, sing.”

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.

Do not resemble another
For autumn won’t touch them the way it touches you.
Your taste receptors will never be the same.
Your dreams are not alike.
You won’t understand the same book in the same way.
Do not say you are the same,
Even if you are twins.
The déjà vu that grasps you for a moment
Detaches you from reality—
You are not another, not in another time,
You are one individual
In the present dimension.
You are not other.
Let us create catharsis for ourselves,
For we seldom feel it from others.

I have a big book on the history of art,
which I read long ago,
but now I've found in it
dried leaves and flowers I had preserved
a herbarium.
I no longer remember when I saved them.
It was a surprise to me.
The flowers have lost their color
but they are so beautiful.
Perhaps I will frame them
to give them eternity.

Words settled in the brain,
Left behind by others,
Remind us of them.
We often wish to erase them forever.
In moments of crisis,
The dirtiest and most tainted words come to mind,
While those drowning grasp onto good words.
Words are insignificant to some, they say,
Yet they still leave red lines on our white ribbons.

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

The president drinks Coca-Cola, just like we do, says marketing. Oh, what a privilege.

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.

My mind is like an overgrown field, mixed with thorns and weeds.
Like a wandering dervish, but not at peace.
I think I’ll smoke a cigarette on the veranda,
with coffee.
Or maybe I’ll take a long walk,
to open a door for these stifling thoughts.

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

Edgar Allan Poe's raven,
A devourer of carrion,
The raven of the underworld,
Gustave Doré's ravens...
A black raven perches on manganese.

If we are bothered by someone else's smell, imagine how uncomfortable they must feel, not being able to get rid of it themselves.

Madness, like a human's mark,
It claims that everything is fine,
It plays, as for it, God has changed,
Faith is either exalted or diminished.
Signs are everywhere,
It has become the center of the universe,
It has absorbed every book,
This treacherous ailment
Has added uncontrollable power.
It plays with colorful thoughts.

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.

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.

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.

I met a thief and told him, "Leave my wallet." He left, but that day he probably lost the desire to steal.

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.

I want to live in a house where silence reigns,
to hear the echo of sounds drifting in from the yard.
To live like the beautiful tales written on the pages of a book,
to love like Juliet,
and to be able to die with her.
He will come in the evening, open the door,
we'll talk simply.
Our desires are the same,
don’t we all long for peace.

The unread books that remain,
I believe 2025 will be more fruitful
with more reading.
There’s much time ahead or maybe none at all.
The elders have said:
live for just one day.
Let’s bring theory into practice,
calmly meet self-development.
Fireworks have been banned,
as their noise makes animals’ hearts stop.

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!

You stand on an ice-covered road,
Feeling the cold beneath your feet—
Your black, grotesque car is warm
But you don’t get in,
You simply don’t want to go anywhere, not to any house.
The driver who was taking you watches,
He can’t find the right words, he’s confused.
You’re like the hero from Camus’ The Stranger, but it’s cold with you,
Pain torments you because you’ve seen so much,
What hurt you, how much more will hurt you, senseless hatred, too much love, pain, pain, even more pain.
Wrong people, out of place.
You kick the ice,
You feel nothing!
A wrong feeling.
"Wrong" by Depeche Mode is the right song
For this moment.
Wrong from the start,
The wrong people by your side, misplaced.
Where do you stop?
You dissolve into the road, the driver continues in your place.
You’re sleepy, you simply fall asleep.

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.

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

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?

In the poem, I spoke of:
I wanted to go to Japan,
But I lost my wallet.

In the homeland of  "Thousand Cranes,"
My first touch
With that remarkable
Book, I felt.

I wanted to go to Japan,
To see the rustling of kimonos.

But I lost my wallet.

I was going in the spring, to
Feel the scent of sakura.

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...

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.

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 have grown a lot,
my brain is growing,
the knots in my brain are untying.
I want to be small,
I am in despair,
Or like Alice…

You talk to everyone, everyone in your heart,
But you’re not a god,
You’re just a woman sitting in a subway car, talking to herself.
You talk to Dionysus, asking him for a drink.
You go to the tobacco field, smoking a hookah there,
Because you like the smell of tobacco leaves.

You walk down the street, feeling the scent of lilacs,
Though it’s not spring.
People look at you, and you think you know them all.
You feel somatic touches,
It seems like the one you love has come to you and touched you.

You listen to the music, The Verve’s “Bitter Sweet Symphony.”
You feel an extreme, your taste receptors sharpen.
You feel love, elevated.

Rosehips remain on the bushes,
someone sings about God aging.
In the cold winter, I craved ice cream
a mix of strawberry and vanilla.

I’ve weathered crises,
my brain’s convolutions feel heavy.
I can feel the flow of my blood.
An old man sits on a car, dying.

I’m afraid of cars,
afraid of collisions, of accidents.
I drop ice cubes into lemonade;
even in winter, I love cold drinks and food.

My grandmother knits socks for me.
I’m afraid she’s grown old,
afraid of losing her.

The sunset heralds the coming night
in winter, darkness falls quickly.

I have buried my love again,
I dug it out from the earth,
I said, "God, I still love you!"
I hugged the cold wall,
I wanted to feel something.
Often, I betray myself,
Our problems vary in their weight.
You turned into a sharp spasmodic pain.
Maybe Aphrodite would have understood me!
Love is beauty, most people say,
But it doesn’t concern me, nor my love,
For I live in darkness,
I glorify the feelings of affection.

Every person I've met has their own demands and whims directed at me.
I always regard them with forgiveness.
But they can't understand this
they fuss, thinking I see them as empty space.
I simply possess great willpower.

Do you love the coffee placed in the machine more, or the aroma that fills the room during the brewing process?

I’m simply worried about the cruelty of nature,
Or perhaps about the carelessness of humans...
The fires,
The scorched homes,
The injured people.
Could I write about birds and animals at a time like this?
I don’t think so, because they too die,
They too turn to ash.
A single city can be entirely consumed by fire,
And our efforts prove meaningless.

It is painful to be a perfectionist,
Mistakes hurt me.

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.

The noise will shatter the windows,
the scorching cold will light a torch,
because often, falling asleep in frost,
we may warm up and die bloodless.

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

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.

Where do you draw inspiration from?
A paused television screen
showing the northern lights.
If you have money and a sharp mind,
getting into Harvard isn’t hard,
even for a ceramics course.
Oatmeal we eat in the morning,
or sometimes skip entirely.

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.