Once I thought
that I could fly,
then
that I could heal.

And today I raised my face to the sun,
and whispered softly: “Help,”
for people truly are unwell.

I began to ask for a sign
that everything will change,
that we will open our hearts,
that we will want less,
and not more and more.

And so I hung suspended
in that very thought.

My students listened kindly,
I tried to convince them
there is no need to fear.

I am in the right place
and at the right time.
My levitation no longer troubles me.

I want to be a support
for myself and for others
in my tiny scale,
since I cannot lift the sky.

On the way back with my daughter
I saw a white feather,
already drifting in the night air.

It began circling around us.
It was no mirage.

My child and I,
in awe of the great
and the microscopic,
watched that strange, flying being.

The child asked: “Is it an angel?”
And I answered: “It’s a sign.”

That white feather came to me
and became a warm web
of only good wishes,

gently falling straight
into my wide-open arms,
melting calmly into my hand.

A miracle happened.
The fear is gone.

What remains is

Love, Tenderness, and Hope.

It is what it is.
In the great *** of everyday life,
contexts mix at will.

You never know
whether the interpretation of words and actions
will stand kindly on your side.

And what if the perspective of others
obscures some truth about you?

You produce words,
uselessly explaining why.

Silent, you gain nothing.
Speaking boldly, you often damage relationships
and what you have built with love
over the years.

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.