I was the architect of my own fall.
It had been easier to open my hands helplessly
than to clench fists against bullet-scarred walls.

Transgression: naivety in passivity.
Penance: the loss of trust
that I could shine with my own pure light.
I withdrew, leaving behind the space I had carved.

I hid, healing myself in silence,
for in that place, dreams were safer.
Hunger remained hunger,
longing remained longing.

I chose to carry guilt myself
rather than admit that I had been broken:
the stubbornness of a frayed razor
that could not cut through the page.

I was the builder of my suffering
by my own will, seeing the glow in others.
I was warm water,
shimmering in a thousand drops.

The world didn’t end.
The sun stayed, the wind still blew,
and the trees stretched out their arms to me.
Everything that came after was easier,
no longer hurting so much.

I am sitting on a bench in the gold-red park,
watching the leaves, watching this life,
which, in my mind, was different months ago.
But this time I take my face in my hands,
with tenderness to myself,
rebuilding my home, my place.
I know I always deserved it.

Today again I saw a gate in the sky.
Streams of pale light trickled through it.
I no longer looked at the sun, only straight ahead,
My silhouette reflected in the ***** tram window.
I looked farther, hypnotized,
sipping words veiled in the dust of the autumn sun.

Dry spaces. Leaves.
Golden bile sparkled,
And no one saw this wonder in the sky.
At the stop, in the crowd rushing by,
An experiment took place:
A man wrapped in copper threads.

He searched for relief while anger bound his soul.
He fought the air, attacked with words,
Like a puppet moving in convulsions.

Hands clenched, anger in his eyes.
“This will pass, this will fade,” I thought,
Moving to another car.

A primal tremor. A change of frequency.
Someone is turning the **** of our universe.
How many more cells of the body will they spoil
Before it is ground to ashes?
Until all ends in colonization,
A reward for micro-souls from another world.

People sunk in their minds
do not hear the hum of strings.
And I plead in my thoughts:
listen, look, be your reality.

Behind the gate a hundred weeks ago,
a crackling gramophone plays.
My calm relieves someone’s thoughts.
Somewhere, thousands of hours ago,
the past becomes the future.

Next time when you pass by me, indifferent,
the warmth of my thought will warm your
Dry, wrinkled hands.

I will never know You, and I would like to know
what you will say when these trembling words arrive on the wind.

In the autumn glow of the setting sun,
Like a gentle brushing of leaves at the next opening of the gate.
I will be there in the crack like a stray thought
that wanted to become immortality.

Este mundo ya está lleno
de víctimas  que entregan
el sacrificio de su vida por una idea,
por nociones abstractas.

Los santos nos rodean con sus muertes,
vidas blancas, ascéticas,
momentos infelices,
sin éxtasis corporales.

Ejemplares por su sufrimiento,
Pero ya no lo quiero.

Busco una utopía dulce en palabras
llena de gente que siente algo,
escribiendo nuevas páginas
de la existencia humana.

No quiero más crucificados,
ni sumisión, ni glorificación.
El misterio duele demasiado.

Echo de menos un mundo equilibrado,
colmado de seres humanos vivientes,
Tengo miedo de los  chivos expiatorios.

¿Es demasiado pedir?
AE

My city,
A magical place, my new home.
I came here long, long ago,
Without counting days,
But the various years.

There, on that street, stood a small shop,
Called The Last Emperor,
A kingdom of tea leaves
And aromatic coffee beans.

A modest man, the owner,
With a humble, quiet heart.
That’s how I saw him:
A bright face, tired gaze
Marked by years,
Like a lantern of wisdom
In the middle of a rough ocean

Then came the online revolution,
And the emperor laid down
His noble title.
The virtual world
Does not care for poetry.
It prefers short notes,
Recycled images,
Fast-trending tags
Without hours suspended
In pain and deep happiness.

The place is the same,
Only the name has changed.
The same owner still politely asks:
“Would you like it more bitter,
Or perhaps with a note of caramel?”

And I no longer know myself
Whether he means
The taste of coffee,
Maybe he is asking about my life.

Thoughts,
like lost words from the past,
in a Confucian style…

A homeless, middle-aged man
Often visited his friend:
The Last Emperor.
He drank hot tea there,
His radiating aura
As if from another world,
Like a Parisian vagabond.

A brief exchange of courtesy
With the dethronized Emperor,
And then he left walking tall,
Like a lord, into the street
Of a fantastic, strange world.
No one could deny him.
His dignity!

Once, as I was gazing at him,
He turned to me, saying
“Why are you staring at me, Madam?
I’m truly fine here!”

He didn’t know
That I was captivated
By his certainty,
Seeing in him a free man,
Living without fear,
As if each moment
Were eternally closed
In a small bean
Of coffee scent.

I swallowed my saliva.
I closed my eyes
to say what had followed me
and walked before me
for many years.

Did you know those thin twigs
pierced the cells of my skin?
It didn’t hurt.
A miracle of creation,
a tree is growing inside me.

It sent out shoots into the blue above
and roots deep into the earth.
So many times I awakened to life.
Even more often,
I lost leaves, leaving them behind
like worn-out words
and sweet pauses of silence,
the calm after inconsolable sobbing.

Living tissue,
swollen with anger, burst again.
Oceans spilled.
Fire tried to burn joy and hope.
Watching as sensitivity curled,
like a frightened puppy.

I remember the child
and the grown woman.
I remember everything
except the words.

When the artificial lights go out,
you will see
how much strength you still carry,
how many living suns burn within you,
waiting to give warmth.

Even when everything screams
and your tissues pulse with fear,
still, you live
with your voice,
with your thoughts.
It is not the end.
It is night coming.
I do not say goodbye.
I say good night.