Somewhere between
Life and death
In the borderland
Of an awake and a sleep
You strive very hard
To come back to nonage,
Somewhere on the timeline
Of creative visions and dreams
In your inner streets of "Drohobych"
In the search for lost indentity-
You fight with crocodiles
Waiting for the "cinnamon shops",
When you try to catch values
In all crying corners.
But they run away like mirror images,
When you travel by tram
Wthout a front wall
And you look for the colors
in this colorless reality...
But somewhere beyond self-mythology
You still await for a train...
And nobody knows of
Its true timetable...

Your eyes ogle at me
 Like two skies from close-up
 And like a huge azure ocean,
 That swims from your head to my feet...
 It paralyses me with the waves
 Of your gutsy glances-
 They go under my skin
 And flow past my flesh and blood
 To scan my self... and ...then...
 You usually win when I close my eyes...


So, let's go crazy tonight...
In separated beds,
In separated bodies,
In empty embraces...

So, let's go crazy tonight
Go into the eyes of lonely night
And see the truth beyond your self...
And feel my long hair of unfinished poems...

So let's go crazy tonight and light me up...

It must be something more
in this world of colourful plumes,
Something more than different pasta shapes
and more than plagiarism of life and death,

It must be something more
than written and unwritten myths,
than sensual and wild kisses,
Something more than soul analysis of Proust,
Something more than words and signs,
Something more than all religions of world- put together,

There's more to it than meets the eye-
there's timeless river of Sense-
in the knowledge of birds,
in the longing of human,
in the swoosh of trees,
in the silent silence of God...
~ Anna Zapalska

In the hot sunlight
Time stopped for a while,
When Past, Present and Future
Were absent, away from this realm,
And that chime drowned out
All anguish with unknown bliss,
When warm stones and streets
Were redolent of roses-
Haply like those aromas
Of Saint Rita's forehead
At that time years ago...

Poems are like birds-
they fly up high to the sky
in silence aloud...

It was not a matter
of a small detail...
It was not a matter
of the ****** date
It was an ocean of grief-
tears, anguish, pain-
which one man can make
to another- on purpose...