Love isn't blind,
blind are those,
who never loved.

Those poppy fields were lifeless,
but now they shine with light.
The war has made them bleeding,
the Peace has made them smile.

Each flower is a soldier,
who sacrificed his life,
who gave up his own future
to make our future count.

Each flower tells a story
of man and woman's fight,
you hear them in the glory
of petals shining bright.

Shhh, quiet, can you hear this?
The flowers -  making sound.

The unsung heroes singing
the song of joy - and life.

Poet lives amongst people,
in the land of sadness and happiness, where they live,
he dresses up like them, speaks like them,
in their language he had to learn.
But when he is on his own, he speaks in own tongue
to not to forget it.
He speaks with the dead, he keeps in touch with them,
to make sure everything goes according to plan.

He is afraid to tell what he sees,
in case people put him down and disbelieve.
He forces himself to keep his mouth shut,
he knows the price. He can't just die,
he's on a mission. So carefully
he smuggles in the truth in his poetry.

Said rat to the rat:
"I wanna be cat,
I'm fed up with being a rat,
I am more than that".
But rat replied:
You better shut
up, you nut.

Unknown error has occurred,
unknown things started to happen,
unknown windows opened up
by an unknown applications.

Unknown pictures and descriptions,
from which unknown files emerged,
they got multiplied so quickly
in the very unknown way.

Unknown error has occurred
in a strangely unknown way.
If you need help press OK
if you wanna leave - press ESCAPE.

If you see black screen - please wait.

The bus
won't wait
for you,
if you are
running late.

Too late.
The bus is now
too far.
The bus
didn't wait
for you.
Who
do you think
you are?

No one cared
that there was an unattended bag on the train.
Staring at their phones, not looking around
what's going on,
raising heads only to see if it's their stop,
busy with Facebook notifications,
Instagram posts and youtube sensations,
commuting to work
from A to B,
half-******, half-asleep.
At 7am it's hard to be happy,
when you are going to work,
it's hard
to be something more
than a dumb, silent slave of the modern times.

No one cares about the unattended bag.
It's hard to give a ****,
when no one gives a ****.
You wanna talk to the driver? Good luck.

Someone noticed the bag, got a bit suspicious,
he looked around, and it was hard
to produce a word, to open his mouth,
to make all heads turn to him, all their eyes
have them fixed on you, when you are trying to explain
what's your concern.

There's no members of staff on the train anyway,
you don't wanna be late for work,
because of the stupid bag.

It's much easier to carry on
with staring at your phone,
not thinking of anything,
not getting paranoid about stuff.
It will spare you troubles in life.

They call him weird.
He doesn’t belong to their world.  

He doesn’t fit,  
so they label him a stranger,  
a bad guy.  

But he wouldn’t harm a fly;  

he is too good
to be.  

One of them.

The motto
of one of the Inquisitors of The Church was:

"We would gladly burn a hundred,
if just one of them is guilty".

Sounds familiar?

Running away from the barbaric land,  
where an eye for an eye is the only law.  
Escaping the blind hatred of its people.

My own home has been besieged.  

Fleeing from wars and heartless bombs,  
hollow eyes and kidnapped souls.  

Running away from leaders and preachers,  
from life after life and death before death.

They have children,  
they have homes,  
they have money,  
they have jobs,  
they have cars...
and there are so many other things they wish to have.  

We, poets,
have paper and pen.  
That's enough.

And my kingdom has fallen too,  
though I tried so hard to save its glory.  
All the gods and goddesses I served  
are upset with me. I'm so sorry.  

I could easily rise above the ground,  
if I only wanted to—I was so strong.  
But I've lost again what I once found,  
They were right, and I was wrong.  

Look at us; we are running away  
from the country that used to be our home.  
I never thought I could betray  
my own land, my own people, my soul.  

It's too late to sit and whine;  
it's too late to seek any forgiveness.  
Too late to turn back the hands of time.  
I'm the killer, the victim, and the witness.  

I could run, join them, and disappear,  
leaving cities of ruins behind.  
But I'll stay here; that's all I can do.  
I'll stay here and admit my crime.

Boats
on the horizon.
The sun
is painting the vessels
in the colour of

longing.

Travelling used to be fun,
crossing borders
without showing the passport,
welcomed with wide smiles,
no questions asked,
for there was no questions to ask.

Not scouring the suitcases,
no patdowns, no fuss.

No metal detectors, no police, no guns,
just handshakes and hugs,
warm 'Hi' and 'Have a wonderful time'.

Travelling used to be fun.

You agree with me, saying
that I have taken them out of your mouth.
Yes, correct,
like literally.

I dared.

I'm not scared of the rain
and storms.
Yes, I am guilty of being a dreamer,
so what?

Passengers on the train, with dullness in their eyes,  
sit in front of me like a reflection.  
They stare at me, unable to look away.

The train rolls on, its sound stretching seconds into hours.  
They continue to gaze at me and then at the window,  
staring so blankly that I can hear their breaths.  

From time to time, some stand up,  
step outside, and free me from their presence.  
I beg fate, "Please, don't let them come back!"  

But they return, sit down,
and resume their gaze.

I didn't start the war.  
I swear it wasn't me!  
I was sitting in my bedroom,  
listening to music and drinking tea.  

I have no reason to fight,  
to ****, or retaliate.  
I despise violence;  
I also meditate.  

I don't follow the news;  
I'd say they rather follow me.  
My only crime is that I  
feel for those who were killed.  

And yes, I cried when I saw  
a woman hugging her dead child.  
Her eyes were red from screaming  
into the silence of the sky.  

Yes, I cried when I saw her;  
I couldn't stop my tears.  
My only crime is that I  
feel for those who were killed.

Getting there, though no idea where.
And to be honest: I don’t care.
But slowly, step by step,
every second, every day,
I am getting closer, yes, I am!

And sometimes it feels like I can see it,
I can taste it, I can hear it.
Sometimes it seems like I'm already there,
no longer here.

But there’s still a long way to go,
many sleepless nights and long days
a journey through the snow, the hail, and the sleet.

Getting there, though no idea where.
And to be honest, I don’t care.

Would it help me if I did?