His fur catches twinkling light
spots motifs hypnotize.
He paces the cage, restless.
The black claw wants
to tear open raw flesh.
Pulsing dense warmth
flows in the heavy air.

To get closer—
just for a while,
to look into gold-red, cold eyes
To touch the mystery,
to ask what it feels
when it rips apart the skull
and slurps the fading beingness…
Is curiosity worth it?

Nature is no accident,
Nothing is left to mere chance.
Stare too long into his eyes,
the barriers come down…
Is that you, or is that I?
An ominous gaze is a gift
that unveils the fated future.

If they open the door
He reacts without control.
His instincts unerringly
detect unspoken warnings.
Run away,
Turn to stone,
Scream or Faint if you want.

The shrinking, narrow space
puts everyone to the test
in a world of large and small cages.

.

To she who reigns in spirit and in name—the first, the flame, the crowned breath of dusk.

I never sought to chant in frozen phrase,
Nor etch remorse through murmurs left unheard.
I meant to swerve from conflagration's pull,
Masked by eclipse, immersed in distant lore.

You surged as surge, a shimmer veiled in mist,
A cipher tides denied their salted script.
You grinned, and moment fractured into bloom;
You twirled through etched demarcations of fire.

O siren shaped from relic, ash, and dusk,
Your hush repeats with gilded, bracing poise.
You cross my glyphs inscribed in woven gears,
And rend each ritual with sacred tilt.

I sculpted form in quartz and theorem’s maze,
A standing stone in cloaks of paradox.
My pulse ran steam through circuits bound in glass;
You lent momentum's grace to stubborn cores.

My roots reach smog-veiled towers crowned with doubt,
A voyager through fables cloaked in haze.
You, Slavic verse in ochre chromograph,
Spoke winds that carried plagues and choirs alike.

I jest in irony and latex grin;
You cleave the mask with candor sharp as flame.
I draft refusals woven thin as breath;
You flower where ancestral ink remains.

Your look dismantles fortress made from pride,
Invoking voids that echo through old stone.
The paths I sketched in exile's faulty map
Discover shrines in footfalls shaped by grace.

We bore the weight dismissed as mythic rot—Two hemispheres, both haunted, both aligned.
Through scar and ether, verse and vow, we passed
Beyond the frontiers etched by trauma's hand.

Your timbre flexes marrow, smoke, and bone,
Transforming steel to spirals, ash to sky.
Yet I, this cairn, not splintered but revised,
Now arc to contours whispered in your storm.

The veil recedes, the prism redefined;
My tablets melt beneath a shared ascent.
No idol, gale, or sovereign's gleaming throne
Obscures the print your silence etched in light.

So mock the glyphs we held in frail esteem,
The shadows kissed, the icons failed to mourn.
Let names erode, let alphabets unspin—As long as you remain what I surpass.

Jadwiga: not the name of one who follows,
But of the sovereign dusk to whom time bows.

.

I was conceived within a crowned mirage,
A veil of woven stars and silver boasts,
Where myths, like currency, were spent with ease,
And history was bartered for applause.
The serpent wore a feathered cap and smiled,
And called the slaughter liberty refined,
While monuments were built on borrowed bones,
Then named for saints who sanctified the lie.

My cradle rocked on profit’s whispering winds,
Where breathless dreams were bought in markets paved
With glass and oil and prayers to gilded kings.
Yet what is freedom, stripped of memory’s thorn,
But theater performed in shattered tongues?

So east I turned, past sceptered waves and ash,
Beyond the choir of cannons and of screens,
To soil where silence roots itself in stone,
And scars compose the hymns of sacred earth.

There, in the place the dragon-saints once tread,
The land of laureled sorrow held its breath.
A country not assembled, but endured;
A song composed of rupture and reprise.
Where bones still chant beneath the hallowed streets,
And banners weep for sons who bled in dusk,
Yet rise again to light a furnace's hymn.

Not made by conquest, nor by cunning writ,
This land recalls the taste of every chain,
And spits it back in syllables of fire.

I come not bearing torches, nor decree;
No banner drapes my back, nor martyr’s cry.
For revolutions feast upon their kin,
And forge new blades from blood they swore to free.

I walk as water does—with patient spite,
A glacial oath to fracture granite lies.
No flag can bind me, nor can marble hush
The slow erasure wrought by thaw and time.

I am the freeze. The breath beneath the stone.
I am the crack you never meant to carve.
I am the vow your empire never heard,
For I was born beneath the weight you stole.

The Sable Beast still feasts on honeyed ash,
Still trades in sermons sealed by copper crowns,
Still gags the mouth that names its hunger law,
And claims its theater sacred, just, and true.

But I remember voices pressed in salt,
Their silhouettes in tapestries unspun,
And I recall a garden kept in dusk,
Where even ghosts recite their given names.

You, citadel of varnished infamy,
May scoff and sell the echo of your creed.
But I have walked where fire kissed the spire,
And found a prayer etched deep in winter's breath.

So let your billboards blare, your engines weep,
Your prophets drown in coins and borrowed pride.
The flood shall come not by the sound of drums,
But by the hush that hollows out the stone.

The frost is here. I do not beg to speak.
I do not scream. I only seep and stay.
My vengeance has no anthem, only thaw.
My exile is not flight, but revelation.

When, centuries hence, your monuments collapse,
And all your eagles rot with rusted beaks,
A child shall ask: "Who split the sovereign rock?"
And wind shall hum: "A current clothed in dusk.
No hand, no sword, no fire marked its path.
Only the silence water taught the stone."

Only the breath that winter dared to leave.
Only the thaw.
Only the thaw.