Lost in kitschy poems,
I found the self
that rejects ****** makeup,
renounces every trace of femininity,
lights fragrant candles in the evenings
only
so the walls become infused.
Always alone.
We are alone
no matter who our Zeus may be.

This tree simply sprouts on its own,
as if it comes from nowhere.

Very tall distinctive
it has leaves,
but its branches are very short.

It grows beside the fence
to this day,
I don’t know what the tree is called.

Life is like a kaleidoscope,
in which we lose ourselves.
Sometimes we change the frames,
but often we stare at the same spot.
Meanwhile, it comes to an end old age arrives.
And then we start looking into it all over again,
just to recall the frames of the past.

When the river strikes the rock,
The scorching sun,
The river leeches
That look like tadpoles,
And your face reflected in the water
Long fingers,
Golden hair,
A sharp voice.

When night falls
In a meadow full of mosquitoes
Thirsty for our blood,
We will avoid them.
Everything is abstract
Every cloud in the sky...

If you ever wander into an uncut forest,
pause think of the future,
for it is no different from that forest.

It’s a simple truth, quietly philosophical.

Sharp stones and thorns
may not please us,
but on life’s path,
they are unavoidable.

The mind seeks training:
to adapt, to merge,
to express strength
in subtle details.

And when we begin again,
to ask why we exist,
the answer comes
as if from a simplified lesson.

Yet the true meaning lies
in facing the obstacle,
and each lesson,
in the end,
is perfect philosophy.

I’m reading Old Masters by Thomas Bernhard a work of pure genius.
It stirred thoughts about public service, about the state’s attitude toward us, and perhaps, just as much, our attitude toward it.
It led me to ponder art itself, the very essence of perfection, and the weight of meaning within words.
Madness  the refined kind  lives and breathes within these pages.
They say something can be “madly good”  no phrase fits this book better.
I’ve always loved playing the role of a researcher, especially when a book is such a pleasure to read.

With scratched hands
I picked blackberries.
The summer days were blissful.
Out of the bushes
I met a witch
a fat witch,
with black hair and a long tongue
whose tongue carried me home.