Voting
Jun 3, 2026Poems
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🦋 🔄 🌱
Transformation & Change🤔 💭 🧠
Philosophical & Intellectual❤️ 💕 🌹
Love & Romance💔 😢 🥀
Heartbreak & Loss🌅 ☀️ 🕊️
Hope & Optimism😔 💔 🌧️
Sadness & Melancholy✨ 🌸 🎨
Beauty & Aesthetics🎭 😭 ⚖️
Drama & Tragedy⏳ 🕰️ 🌅
Time & Nostalgia💪 🌟 🚀
Inspiration & Motivation👨👩👧👦 💞 🏡
Family & Relationships😊 🎉 🌈
Happiness & Joy💀 ☠️ 🪦
Death & Mortality😂 🤡 😏
Humor & Satire🌲 🌊 🦋
Nature & Environment🏙️ 🚕 🌆
Political & Social😡 ⚡ 💥
Anger & Conflict😱 🩸 👹
Dark & Scary💋 🔥 🖤
Sexy & Sensual🧙♂️ ✨ 🧚♀️
Fantasy & Magical🔮 👻 🕯️
Mystery & Supernatural⚔️ 🛡️ 🎖️
War & Heroism✈️ 🌍 🧳
World & Travel🏛️ 📜 🏺
Historical & AncientYou were never meant
to carry the weight
of becoming flawless.
Still, you stood in front of the mirrors
counting every crack within yourself
as if broken things
could never be loved.
But look closely
The moon survives with scars,
old books survive with folded pages,
and hearts survive
even after being left unheard.
There is something deeply human
about unfinished people.
The way they hesitate while speaking,
the way their hands shake
before holding someone else’s pain,
the way they smile
even after difficult days.
Perfection is cold.
It does not tremble,
does not heal,
does not understand.
But imperfect people—
they learn softness
from every wound.
They become gentle
because life once wasn’t gentle with them.
And maybe that is enough.
Maybe being human
was never about shining without flaws,
but about continuing to love,
to try,
to stay kind
while carrying all those invisible storms inside.
So if you ever feel incomplete,
remember this—
some souls are beautiful
not because they are perfect,
but because they remained good
in a world
that gave them every reason not to.
#146
i will never understand
why there is so much hatred
towards a community
so built on love
that it can be seen
in every color of our rainbow
red is the blazing fire
the all-consuming passion
our heartbeats pounding
in unison
orange is the citrus
the shared snack
basking in the tangy sugariness
juice running down our faces
yellow is the sunshine
the light
the joy of being who we are
and letting ourselves shine through the grey
green is the emerald
the precious gem we found
underground and buried in stone
while at our deepest and darkest
blue is the sky
on a cloudless summer day
serene and undisturbed
peaceful
indigo is the flood
the unstoppable force
breaking down walls
and transcending all barriers
violet is the flowers
and butterflies
and beautiful moments
we thought were out of reach for us
the reality is
there will always be people
who choose to hate us
for our electric love
but at the end of the day
they're the ones missing out
because they've made themselves blind
to our screaming color
#239
I'd give you the hair-tie around my wrist.
I'd make you laugh, and I'd cry for you when your back was turned.
I'd braid your hair, and tell you I love you.
I'd talk until you couldn't help but believe that was true.
I'd give you the world, the moon, and the stars.
I'd make you feel safe again.
I'd braid your worries into confidence.
I'd talk you off the tallest ledge.
I'd give you the hair-tie around my wrist,
Because in a world where I'd do anything,
That's all that I can do.
#337
*
a field of yes
when Yes was still young
it lived nowhere
Nigde knew this
Nigde always knows first
someone sat beside it
writing music
that taught birds
how to arrive
before arriving
meanwhile
the Ministry of Gravity
continued filing complaints
against dancing
the flowers ignored them
naturally
by midsummer
the complaints
had rooted
somewhere
a woman laughed
at a broken umbrella
and the rain
having lost the argument
fell softer
a forgotten garden
continued its negotiations
with spring
the result was green
highly unofficial
entirely convincing
all day
people kept arriving
with their impossible hearts
stitched from
worry
music
bad timing
hope
and whatever it was
that taught the stars
to remain
after burning
by evening
even the stones
had begun considering
forgiveness
yes
said the garden
yes
said the rain
yes
said the stone
yes
said the hand
reaching
before certainty
and somewhere
Nigde smiled
as if it had known
all along
that the world
despite its borders
despite its careful instructions
was secretly
a field
learning
how to say
yes
*
Atlas of Almost
Nigde keeps
a small notebook
sewn from distances
in it are written
all the places
whose names
never caught up
the river
before flow
the road
before direction
the window
before the view
whole countries
made entirely
of almost
some are still waiting
in forests
beneath lakes
inside abandoned songs
others pass through
briefly
and leave
without introducing
at night
Nigde turns a page
and another horizon
goes missing
#337
In the veggie patch,
below the fig tree boughs,
a swarm of specks swirls in warm afternoon light.
They must have wings because they fly
in suggestive patterns and spiral purposes,
but anatomy is indiscernible in this miniature spectacle.
On my desk,
below daddy-long-legs’ webs,
there is a graveyard of specks, each shrouded in silk.
I suspect these specks are from the veggie patch,
but I cannot say, for they too are featureless in smallness,
and drained of vitality by the long-legged specks.
If I were now to step outside,
I could spectate the night sky twinkling –
a spectacular universe of specks,
yet each speck its own specimen.
I could speculate on their significance,
or simply respect this domed speck-spectrum.
Speckles of age grow on my skin.
A dark spectre hovers behind me
while below, granular Earth specks await my return.
I am but a bio-speck, on a small blue speck,
in a cosmic blizzard of specks,
yet I swirl with all others in pattern and purpose.
28
The hugs arrive now with a chill, a thermal debt,
Not from the body you were, but the ghost I beget.
In the REM-stained laboratory of my head,
I clone you nightly from the echoes in my bed.
The first were warm with the ATP’s bright burn,
A feverish graft my senses wouldn’t unlearn.
But memory’s a faulty, cooling replication,
A slow degradation of a once-warm sensation.
Each dream is a petri dish where the old heat dies,
I watch the lovely, lukewarm bacteria of your eyes
Divide and drift toward some cryophilic state,
Adapting to the cold of their postponed-by-fate.
My arms recall a homeothermic bliss, a steady core,
But now they close on a poikilothermic lore---
A creature matching the temperature of its environment,
And my grief is a tundra, vast and permanently sent.
The enzyme of your touch, specific as a key,
Catalyzes nothing now; the substrate is just me,
A reaction slowing down, the activation energy too high,
A thermodynamics of longing, where all warm things must die.
This ache has a half-life that seems to only grow,
A radioactive isotope with a permafrost glow.
The hugs keep coming from this cryogenic past,
A Linnaean type specimen---the first, the last.
So perfectly preserved in the museum of my sleep,
Taxidermied affection, so terribly cheap,
A mounted butterfly of an embrace, pinned to my chest,
Its vivid, dusty scales going colder than the rest.
25
I'm not sleeping
It is 4:57 am
I'm supposed to be sleeping
But all the things went wrong
First it was mosquitoes
And the fear of bites
Then it was siblings
And sleeping in a space too slight
Then heat crept up
And made its bed
Sweating in the temperature
It got inside my head
Also, did I forget to mention
The power's been out
Thankfully, finally, it's back
But it's a little late now
So no I'm not sleeping
and it's 5:02
I have a busy day in the morning
So I should, it's true
But I'm not sleeping
22
I'm sorry I'm here.
I'm sorry I'm not here.
You with so many names,
I'm never sure what to call you.
A different name
for every predation
and infatuation.
Would you have made it on your own
without the chronic condition of boyfriend?
I'm sorry for the slowness
and stamina of time;
years like zombies,
dawdling toward a cliff edge.
I'm sorry.
You feared a moment of insanity.
Not locking the guns away
but keeping a steady eye on them.
You consulted the non-intervening moon
and her shifting moods.
You underestimate me.
I'm my own split mirror.
Here I am,
dating solitude in the doorway,
a chest cavity
occupying the premises,
a woven cage
of stark obsidian and blinding ivory,
refereeing a dispute between
survival
and self-control.
I'm sorry
for long nights,
intersections of memory
and obsession,
panic attacks
and conveyor belts,
clinging to reality
by a sinew of tooth.
I'm sorry I was absent,
memorizing Deuteronomy
for a taste of milk and honey,
pleading guilty
to inherited charges,
getting confirmed
as an antidote
to the evil core of me.
I'm sorry it was exotic
to imagine women like me
ending up in an asylum
coincidentally,
inevitably,
conveniently.
salvaged,
peristalsized through society,
brain-blown
and safely contained,
doused daily
in ice water,
electricity,
or disgrace,
temptations kept
far enough away
to seem imagined.
Like you.
My brave boyfriend,
fantastic prodigy
in a flowing ragged white bathrobe,
long black hair braided back,
a beautiful profile,
dark stone,
that unbreakable stare.
I'm sorry
I was ill-prepared
for your grubby mattress,
your comatose body,
submerged beneath
cheap *****
I'm sorry
that even I
developed feelings for you
amid adults
acting like it's okay
to leave you this way.
© 2026 IngaPink. All rights reserved.
22
Palestine’s cries of joy
For girls and boys
Gaza that may become
The land of no Genocide
Where the people
can reside in the highest peace
Inside the chest and from East to West
Allah is the Best
Allah is Forever Undefeated
So we call for rest
20
It's funny how I'm crying over everything
you didn't do.
The good morning texts
you never sent.
The "Will you be my girlfriend?"
you never asked.
The flowers
you never bought.
Why am I grieving
the potential?
The version of you
I kept hoping for,
the one I stitched together
from wishful thinking
and almosts.
But that's what hunger does.
I've starved long enough
that when you offered crumbs,
I mistook them
for a feast.
So now,
I'm choosing faith
over fantasy.
I'm choosing to believe
that one day I'll find him—
the one who won't complain
that I'm too much
or too little.
The one who will love me
for the messy,
complicated,
unpolished me,
not the versions
I exhaust myself
pretending to be.
15
there is a weight in my chest
that doesn’t belong to gravity
it’s an unborn animal
it takes its time counting my ribs
waiting to hurl me back into the flame
like the skin that remembers its breath
like a scar that still feels the teeth of pain
and the skin has a memory older than my mother
the line between a passing thought and
the surrender may begin to fade
love is the cherry season
love, I see now, is the unasked for
ripening of the cherry
it doesn’t care if
it leaves its sweetness on my tongue
it just throws itself right into
the ***** mouth of the world
it does not read the calendar or
reasonable explanations
it simply waits
it sits at the edge of my awareness
knowing that sooner or later
the afternoon will grow still
you think you hold the reins of your own blood
you think you’re in control
but look how the air splits in two and
love and death look like two sisters
wearing red
14
what I always wanted to hear
I wrote you a letter once
thanking you
for not choosing me.
I meant it—
the way you can mean something
that also breaks you open.
years passed
the way years do,
carrying us
in opposite directions,
toward the lives
we were supposed to have.
then you came back
and told me
you trying to understand
why we parted
I felt it
the way I always knew I would—
visceral,
ancient,
the answer
to a question
I’d stopped asking.
and I held it
the way you hold something
you cannot keep—
carefully,
with both hands.
knowing
life gives
and takes
and gives again,
not always
in the order
we would choose.
you didn’t choose me then.
am I grateful?
I work at it
every day.
I am.
still that girl
who loves you,
and yet
I am exactly
where I’m supposed to be.
11
She came to me with wet cheeks,
Told me about her fever—
How it came at midnight,
How it shook her like a leaf,
How no one understood.
I nodded.
I understood.
She spoke of thermometers and tablets,
Of worries that kept her awake,
Of how hard it is to be alone when you're sick.
Her hands moved as she spoke,
Tracing circles in the air,
Drawing the shape of her suffering
So I could see it clearly.
I saw it.
What she didn't see
Was the cancer sleeping in my bones,
The quiet war inside my chest,
The way I measure my life
In small things now—
Morning light, birdsong,
One more day.
---
She said, "You're so strong.
You always listen.
You never complain about your own problems."
And I smiled,
Because what else can you do
When the weight you carry
Is too heavy for words?
---
Here is what I have learned:
Small pain cries.
Big pain sits.
Medium pain finds a friend.
But the pain that will end you—
That pain makes you a friend
To everyone else's pain.
She will remember this day
As the time I held her hand
While she was sick.
She will tell others,
"He was there for me."
And I will remember
That for one hour
I forgot my own dying
By holding someone else's living.
---
Sometimes I wonder:
If my cancer had a voice,
What would it say?
Would it scream?
Would it beg?
Would it shake people like she did?
Or would it sit quietly too,
Knowing that the world
Can only carry
So much sorrow?
---
Tonight she is home,
Probably sleeping,
Her fever gone by morning.
Tonight I am here,
Counting heartbeats,
Wondering how many are left,
Holding my own hand
Because no one else knows
It needs holding.
---
This is not a complaint.
This is just how it is.
Some people cry in public
Because they can.
Some people cry in private
Because they must.
And some people—
Some people spend their last days
Being soft places
For others to fall.
---
If you read this
And remember someone
Who listened to your pain
But never shared their own—
Go back.
Ask again.
Look closer.
Because the quietest ones
Are usually the ones
Carrying the most.
And sometimes,
In their silence,
They are screaming.
8
5:00 a.m., the newspaper dropped at the door,
Everyday I open that one section to see more.
Among the lines of domestic and international,
The morning paper feels rather conversational.
"GOOD MORNING! ON 'Horoscope Today'....."
"There appears to be some tension on MONDAY..."
Hmm. Let's choose the zodiac with the warmer prediction,
Modern day curation edited for personal conviction.
Hopping on the train, I carry the world folded into pages,
I take a seat and read about the new faces,
The faces in power,faces behind the tower,
And faces that a few words just can't cover.
The train carries thumbs scrolling a curation,
While the pages turn to make time for the duration,
The air doesn't change neither does the stop,
Same thumbs,same windows just a changing backdrop.
Between notifications and glowing screens,
The paper I carry quietly dreams,
To ink the world in pages that inform,
With truths not shaped by ever shifting norms.
8
My mother wears her metallic and luminous grey hair long —
She dons a complementary brushed-chrome suit with a gunmetal woollen jumper to shield her from the biting weather.
Her glasses - rimless, blue-tinted and square are a statement that sings: “I may be nearly 70, but don’t underestimate me!”
She is a walking, striking song —
People stop and stare as we walk by here and there,
In the busy Melbourne streets, she sashays sleek and sweet.
Some serenade her with compliments, some take pictures, many engage, asking for her take on fashion.
I love that she is now in her limelight, the spotlight - gong!
And I get to witness this exquisite woman’s moment,
That may have been lost if we’d just walked head-strong, me scurrying behind her titanium metre hair, long —
6
They gathered the way people do
when there’s no right way to gather
by accident, by necessity, by love.
Because no one is getting embalmed,
there's no one to do that, so people have
funerals quickly, so we have our One Month's Minds.
People can arrange it, we link up half-a-dozen locations
By screen and signal and long-distance breath.
From front-bunkers and kitchens and borrowed town-halls
where the light never quite reaches the corners anymore.
Many poured ***** like it was medicine.
Many more drank it like it was forgiveness.
Laughter broke out too loud, then too quiet.
Names were spoken carefully,
as if saying them wrong might break what little was holding.
They told stories.
Everyone, their very
favourite stories about
her, almost all of us did.
It's a part of these things.
The good stories.
The funny stories.
The stupid stories.
The touching stories.
The ones that only make sense if you were there
and somehow matter even more if you weren’t.
A letter was read—
official, weighty, full of honour.
Yes, from the President himself.
Our leader's voice from far away wrote
just the right things
in just the right order,
and still it wasn’t enough,
because it never, ever is.
And then there was him.
The heart-of-her-heart.
Left to very last after all
others shared their memories.
He stood where the words should have been
and couldn’t find them.
Hands empty.
Throat tight.
The six rooms leaning forward, waiting, kind but helpless.
And then—
as if she had always planned it—
Кітті Кіт ran up and brought the guitar.
Not a grand gesture.
Not a speech. Just him & "Sweetheart", his once-guitar
that he gifted to the one remembered tonight on their very
first date, June 13th 1988, a long time ago; that wood and
those strings...her hair and skin held the memory of his
hands, too, that so recently knew all of these so very well.
Кітті Кіт whispering in his ear: Maybe play a song she liked?
And he played.
He didn’t try to be brave.
He didn’t try to be strong.
He just sang this one song she loved,
A Canadian one, it came to mind immediately,
it's the only song that could be played it seemed,
the one that knows how to walk between worlds
without asking permission...it was meant for now.
And something happened then.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just… right.
Each of the linked rooms stilled.
Every noise fell away so quickly.
Even the grief listened attentively.
At the end for long seconds one could
hear that proverbial pin drop. Then four
of us, her closest friends, started to wail, then
tears spread like a horrible, wonderful virus.
Hard men cried who hadn’t cried since
I'm sure their age was in single-digits, and
who will never cry again in their lives quite likely, wept.
People who thought they were empty found they weren’t.
For a few minutes, everyone was held
by the same sound,
the same remembering.
And now—
a year, seven months, and fourteen days later—
I take that moment
and turn it gently in my hands.
I slow it down.
I let it run backward.
I let light do what words can’t.
A figure walks.
Another joins.
Then fades, the way love does—
not gone, just elsewhere.
But I don't like that, so unlike
life, I just make it run in reverse.
I put the happy part at the end
instead of the beginning.
And the song remains.
So maybe this is not just a video
I threw together, maybe it is a vigil.
Maybe even it is a promise kept
Even though I never made one to her.
After those long years of war, and now these six months
finally away from it, learning what that long forgotten
concept relax truly means again because we aren't most
unconsciously but constantly scanning the sky for drones.
Maybe it is the grief in us both learning how to breathe in
and out of us, a part of us; maybe even a part we might be
learning to share as one shared breath...I don't mind Canada.
He says I didn’t just make something beautiful with his
song he did not even know I recorded back on that night.
He says I made a place for a heavy memory to finally rest,
and that makes it the best Christmas present he's ever gotten.
And that, oh,
is a very old kind of magic.
My little video for Major Pokorny's "One Month's Mind" for the
song her man played, Daniel Lanois' "The Maker", 11 May 2024.
I'm glad he wasn't able to find words, so instead found this song:
https://tinyurl.com/ChristmasTheMaker
Христос Родився, Славімо Його!!
— Наталія
6
She walked with heaven in her quiet soul,
A gentle light that made the broken whole.
Her prayers rose softly with the morning air,
And God was present in each whispered prayer.
She knew His voice within the rustling trees,
Within the storms, the calm, the drifting breeze.
Though imperfect, faithful, strong, and true,
She carried blessings in all she'd journeyed through.
Then came a man with fire upon his tongue,
Certain of truths he'd carried all along.
He spoke of God with passion, deep and wide,
And of the path where answers would reside.
He told her how the Father hears and sees,
How faith can move the mountains and the seas.
He shared the wisdom he had come to know,
The seeds of truth he longed for her to sow.
She listened well, with kindness in her gaze,
Receiving lessons from his faithful ways.
For every soul God uses as a guide,
Can leave a lantern shining by our side.
Yet deep within, she also understood
That God had walked with her through bad and good.
She did not need another soul to prove
The depth and beauty of her Savior's love.
For she had met Him in her darkest night,
And felt His mercy bring her back to light.
She knew His grace before the man appeared,
Had felt His presence every time she feared.
Still, wisdom came through unexpected doors,
And God revealed to her there could be more.
Not more of worth, for she was loved complete,
But deeper places where their spirits meet.
So she grew closer, not by borrowed sight,
But by discovering her own greater light.
The man's devotion helped her seek anew,
Yet every step became her own walk through.
For God speaks softly in a thousand ways,
Through sacred words, through trials, through joyful days.
And while one voice may point us toward the shore,
The heart must choose to seek the Lord still more.
She thanked the man for all the truth he'd shared,
For every moment that he truly cared.
But in the end, what strengthened her the most
Was knowing God had never left His post.
And so she walked, more rooted than before,
Her faith expanded to a wider shore.
Not led away, but lovingly refined,
With God, and God alone, her heart aligned.
For every path that leads us to His face
Is marked by purpose, wisdom, love, and grace.
And though another helped her understand,
She found God deeper by His guiding hand.
5
The day I met you life was so unkind wrong time
You saw us together You took me in your arms promised we’d never part I blushed we rushed
in love I didn’t stop to think You’re 13 yrs older wiser telling me what to do I had sworn off man I had many reasons too The. King of diamonds will beat you if he’s able I laid my cards on the table The queen of heart is always your best bet
A BENEVOLENT man does what he can.
From the first day, we never parted single life discarded We quickly married SACROSANCT last covenant from God to Man I took your hand
The weight of decisions revelation God’s plan
Still I was only 23 I didn’t fully understand
I thought I knew you. a fool giving my heart love to a man as cold as ice. you lived life your way
felt small. I left my life to be your wife. until the day I saw your disguise you’re lying eyes.
Time passages lost in your drunken destruction
Fast Car Decision leave or live and die this way
Gone 18 month my heart in flux life love *****
My heart bruised Unable to choose to start again
to cut the GUARDIAN KNOT Did you really love me? Just reach out touch me come on baby tell me so
Ready willing overtime when do I stop? Where
do you want me to draw the line? You loved my
body, now you want my soul I say NO GO
Getting physical was never our problem.
Relax we are programmed to receive You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave. Caught in Satan‘s spell a living hell By By Miss American Pie was the day, the music died
I’ll forgive you if you forgive me while we were apart, I was human too. For better or worse ignorant, trusting, concede compromise, wild surprise.Back together the impossible dream Without a complete surrender of our hearts, we were fools destined to split apart.It was a shot in the dark, we held out for the brass ring.Love hope eternal spring Requires sacrifice didn’t think twice. recommitted to us our marital Bliss we kissed fell in love again
Reunited it feel's so good cherished is the word I used to describe You Cherish me, I cherish you implicit Trust grew I can’t remember when you weren’t there when I cared for anyone, but you, How You turned our life around the sweetest sound I found with you Our chemistry was the symmetry a balance of harmonious proportion gave our life a center point where music memories emerge converge ,took shape, reflections
When everything went wrong , there was a song together we grew strong.You never had a doubt we’d always work things out. I’ve learned what love’s about. Facing old age We turn another page what can I say I need you more each day, a life well played I love the life we made. We learned to stick it out.Our bodies
Give out our hair turns gray there will come a day God takes you away. Unconditional love we knew that from the start. forever always you are my heart
Watered colors fade to black grim reaper calling that’s where we’re at musical pictures of the way we were I’ll always have the music we made life’s songs close my eyes and sing along through the years, I’ll remember when we Danced
BLT Webster’s word of the day challenge
Normally, it’s one word at a time, but this is a bonus round
May 27, 2026 benevolent
Can describe somebody or something that is kind and generous or something that is organized with the purpose of doing good
May 26, 2026 Guardian knot
Refers to a complicated and difficult problem. It’s often used in the phrase to cut the guardian knot
May 25, 2026 sacrosanct
Is a formal word that describes something to important and respected to be changed or criticized it can also mean most sacred or Holy
My opus and epic poem
Inspired Songs ;
44 years together, I’ve highlighted the top songs
These are the actual songs that defined pivotal moments in my life, through good times and bed and everything in between music we sing.
These songs are a retrospect of My Life and my relationship with my husband. Music we carry it in our heart We cherish the memory of what the music contained. Remnants remain.
NOTE The entire song is relevant not just a little piece of it. Word for Word verse y verse that’s why these songs were chosen. They are in my personal jukebox in my mind.
1) Natural Women By Carole King 1971
2) Time Passages By Al Stewart 1977
3) My Way By Frank Sinatra 1969
4) Fast Car By Tracy Chapman 1988
5) 16 going on 17 the sound of music
song bushel Eaves and Sara Zelle 1998
6) Love is a Battlefield By Pat Benatar 1983
7) Desperado By The Eagles 1973
8) The Way We Were Barbra Streisand
9) We’ve Only Just Begun (wedding song)
By The Carpenters 1970
10) I Can’t Go For That( No Can Do)
By Daryl Hall and John Oates 1981
11) Da Ya Think I’m **** By Rod Stewart 1978
12) Hotel California By the Eagles
10) I’m Sorry By John Denver 1975
11)Dreamland Express By John Denver 1985
12) Reunited (and it feels so good) 1978
By peaches & Herb 1978
13) Perhaps Love By John Denver 1981
14) Love Again By John Denver 1986
15) Cherish By the association 1966
16) Through The Years By Kenny Rogers 1981
17) in our old age, By Kenny Rogers 1990
18) Remember when By Alan Jackson 2003
19 American pie By Don McLean 1972
20) I crossed my heart By George Strait 1992o
21) I did it my way By Frank Sinatra 1968
4
I gazed forward and watch the setting sun sinking in its own distance to teach the daylight what it forgets.
In those final moments, where the rays still peer beyond the horizon, there is a quiet yet certain power.
In its presence lie our restless thoughts; and as the sun descends, they lose their urgency.
In an almost sweet surrender, sorrow loosens its hold, and the spirit discovers a deeper peace.
I guess in careful reflection,
One finds that beauty is not always found in glow and brightness. At times it arrives with the gathering shadows and the fading view of the sun, inviting the heart into contemplation.
There are moments of beauty so still that they silence the chaos and turmoil within us.
In such a presence, time, sorrow, and restless thought briefly release their claim upon the heart,
allowing a kind of peace that can be found only in the view of the heavens.
4
QASĪDAT SHAJAR AL‑DURR
Begin with dust .... the cradle of rule, the first and final human share
Begin with names erased by time, with voices rising from the bare
Begin with those who shaped the world from ******* silence, iron care
Begin with women, crowned or crushed, who held the line when none would dare
Begin with power’s hidden rooms, with truth the chroniclers impair
Begin with empires built by hands the scribes refused to write or spare
Begin with fire .... the kind that grows when history’s cold winds strip it bare
Begin with those who rose from dust and carved their mark in desert air
This is the ledger. This is the oath. This is the book’s unyielding prayer
To speak the names the centuries lost, to lift the ones who bore the glare
Enter, reader. The stones are set. The voices gather. The myths prepare
For here begins the reckoning .... the long, unbroken, rising flare
A Melodic Chronicle for Shajar al‑Durr
She came from the steppe with no name of her own,
A child sold to power, to palace and throne.
Through markets of Levantine dust she was led,
A slave-girl uncounted, a shadow, a thread.
But threads, when pulled taut through the loom of the years,
Can bind up an empire, can silence its fears.
And pearls, when they gather in branches of light,
Can dazzle the day and illumine the night.
She rose in the court where the sceptres were cold,
Where princes were brittle and loyalties sold.
Salih, the Sultan, beheld in her gaze
A mind like a falcon, a heart set ablaze.
She stood by his side when the kingdom was torn,
When Kerak’s dark fortress held him forlorn.
She shared in his triumph, she steadied his reign,
She carried his trust through disaster and pain.
Then Louis of France came with thunder and pride,
His banners like stormclouds along the Nile’s tide.
Damietta had fallen .... the kingdom was bare,
The Sultan lay dying, the court in despair.
But she .... she concealed him, she forged his commands,
She held Egypt’s fate in her resolute hands.
She rallied the captains, she steadied the line,
She bought the long hours that became the divine.
And when Turanshah faltered, when chaos unfurled,
The mamluks turned not to a man, but a girl.
A woman, a widow, a mind honed by fire ....
They crowned her Sultan, the first of the Mamluk Empire.
She ransomed a king with a queen at her side,
Four hundred thousand livres for French wounded pride.
She ended a crusade with a signature’s grace,
And Egypt stood sovereign, unbroken in place.
Her husband entombed in a shrine of her making,
Its dome like a promise, its marble unshaking.
And later, her own tomb .... austere, white and still ....
Held a mihrab of pearls shaped by her iron will.
A tree in mosaic, forbidden yet shown,
A symbol of selfhood she carved into stone.
A woman once nameless, now rooted in art,
A pearl-tree ascending from courage and heart.
Though chronicles slight her, though scribes look away,
Her branches still glimmer in damascene sway.
For power may perish, and dynasties fall,
But the Tree of the Pearls outlasts them all.
[email protected]
31 May 2026
4
Endless depths in a naked reality
Crafted from the glass of the Milky Way
So that a brush of sunlight could sweep them away
Beneath the roots of an abandoned lightning bolt
They were extinguished by unreasoning rains
And scattered by the ash of constellations
So that they might be born again
Oči
Beskrajne dubine u razgoličenoj javi
Izrađene od srča Mliječnog puta
Da ih može brisak sunca odnijeti
Ispod korijena napuštene munje
Gasile su ih nerazumne kiše
I rasipao pepeo sazvežđa
Da se ponovo mogu roditi
3
মন যায় (TITLE)
মন যায় তোমাক আকৌ এবাৰ চাবলৈ,
মন যায় তোমাক কাষত পাবলৈ,
মন যায় তোমাৰ লগত সময় কটাবলৈ...
জানো, নোহোৱা তুমি মোৰ কেতিয়াও,
তথাপি...
মন যায় তোমাক পাবলৈ।
THE HEART LONGS
My heart longs
to see you once again.
My heart longs
to have you by my side.
My heart longs
to spend time with you...
I know
you were never mine,
and yet...
my heart still longs for you.
3