Life of having two hearts
One that knew the love,
knew the eyes of doom,
knew the feeling of an upcoming tempest.
At what time to arrive at the amorous place,
before lifting one’s gaze,
after the plume of saline, in amalgamation with citric fragrances—
overpowering, and of rich darkness—
went immortal from the lawn fields,
into the glass world,
and fell there, from the great heights—******.

And another heart—substitute in armor—
longed for no specific lore,
just remembered nothing,
and, hitherto,
known for no desire
to love.

Dreams
are melting glaciers under my eyes,
when they first meet the sun
upon the dawn.
Tower of ivory, as cold, white hands—
yet soft.
don’t open them—
let them preserve
their enchanting form,
so my eyes shall keep all magic.
For a beautiful moment,
I want to stay in phantasmagoria;
for never, nor ever,
do I want to flee the dream room.

Let’s leave all flowers here alone.

Embarked on an ardent, darker flight,
forcing my own soul to seek tenebrous love.
Weary of constant dizziness,
of complicated thresholds,
and of the spiritual crime.

What brought us to this night?—
the mystery,
the fright.
What has been kept? What will be given?
So unresolved and so opaque,
this—what enfolds the being.
No clear path, no order,
no purity in time.

Every night seems to end with me
in agonizing wildfire by the enlightening sea.
And all I have a chance to recall
loses the memory of the last step when I walk the new.
So the universe hides all I, myself, find worthy of holding tight to.
And by my heart’s lake,
the mortal coil pulls the golden thread,
slicing hemispheres
in which there’s no outlet
for everlasting riot.
Ashes invisible to others,
but obvious to me.

Judgmental cry of gaiety—
for them, for us, for me.
In the darkest forest,
Virgil’s gaze reflects
on fate, forlorn inferiority bestowed,
on the effervescent tree.

Nothing inspires the stranger anymore;
his eyes in full, active vagrancy,

searching for any brisk encounter with virtuous hope,

but they only land on a ray of sunshine,
highlighting the path, pointing west.

To the west, he finds dry land, 
mischievous land, hungry for arms of kindness.

Impalpable, catatonic mirage, reflected by the sounds of shivering dead grass,

blown by the November morning wind.

And hollow, doorless churches to the west, at this hour, meet drafts

that carry the force to blow out all the praised and chanted candles—
for the loved and lost,
for the warmth of the body,

for frostbitten souls.

It’s in that darkness the stranger realises himself:

standing on his knees,

patting and crying over this land,

asking for ease, begging for bliss.

And it's the pain he feels,
that kills him harder than the death itself.

Reciprocated heavens gazed at
untouched lips of dawn.
The only question that I hold
Is how to climb the stairs
That lead to heights of godly fruits.
Why can we only share this land with birds
When they are pulled to earth?

Wearing my face to see the delicacy of native streets,
How much this soil has absorbed of our emotional dust
That glimmers with ethereal beauty.
Sometimes I realize our mothers carried us, untethered, from the realm of energy
Into the solidity of the world of matter.
And the reason for this pull through this vortex was an act of love.
And these streets are the final point
From which we are now brave.

Does light find its shelter when it’s turned off?

Long awaiting on shore

for mysterious nights,

that come to your doorstep,

holding a dandelion in their naked hand.

Light reflections of riverbed on the sleeves,

all the white candles that we bear without burning them,

as if we wouldn’t burn ourselves

on the threshold of an agonizing encounter

with desire itself.

But the brave one reverses the curse,

knows how to touch glaciers without melting them,

knows the nature of love affairs.
And in repose, glances at the face that holds immaculate grace,

without attaching it to their own possessions,

without possessing the heart of this face.

Adept of gentleness,
of mature patience.
The wise nights.

What a reckless bird,
Snitching the snow under the legs.
In the omnipresent blueness of this night,
Which is held by occult hands with
Long black nails,
In openwork lace.

And the sky has its eyes,
Chestnut curls spiraling glaciers,
Cut and chipped,
Onto our eyes as needles falling through,
Sewing the horizon.
As if poked, named papercards with the red thread,
During the conclave.

Stretched cardinals through the starry path,
Indicative of a new heart to arrive
On the prolonged, upside-down riverbed,
Provident messiah.
Will come as Minerva came through her father's head,
Fully grown, wearing golden armor.

1.
Winter’s grey dusk lies hollow,

virtue of warm tears melts into,

as it snows onto,

and everything whistles above the soil.

2.
Passengers arrive at the house,

in black silk robes,

hems soaking in cold water.

Drenched.

Their eyes too, soak in the hollow sights

of inner, perpetual, agonizing upheavals.

Their eyes freeze and fall,

fragile winter tree glass *****.

No house remains in sight.

3.
The moist skin of the sky

elongates its soft arms,

laying the cold body on the ground in slowness.

The beautiful face of the body cries:

sweet liquid of happiness.

It’s alive, brined in everythingness.

4.
Love the darkness in closed eyes.

Love the somberness of your soul.

Love all the murk shapes of nature,

and the ominous abyss in yourself, behold.

There was always a thought I was harboring, 

waiting for the right moon's crescent above us, 

waiting for the right soil, fertile and strong.

I've crossed the cold oceans—holding it, 

Winds of rough nature—further molding it.

So, to come home and unfold it to you.


Flying above daffodils.

History of our lands—
these crumbled stones,
slowly eaten and swallowed by the meadows.

This fatigued yore—I did pass too.

Again, reverently saving it; 

from the hungry eyes,

from the hectic minds.

Delivering it, like a ring of my devotion—to you.

Dreams have not yet left,
the skin of eyes in solace.
Only omnivorous vermin
are eating the waiting time,
ready to French kiss minutes themselves and,
by far,
engaged; in a hurry, impatient to marry the seconds;
ready to do the job after a Proustian search for the lost bits of it.

But what is this yearning?
What if
it’s already the dream of a butterfly,
in which this addiction of ours
has fundamentally been an illusion—
still soaking us to detect
if we are able to purchase nothingness,
hoping for no gravity while falling,
anthropomorphizing inanimate concepts.

As Adorno has written it,
the splinter in your eye is the best magnifying glass available.
But do splinters reside only there?
As we walk on this grass,
as we unconsciously frolic in the golden night with an hourglass at the center,
as in the heart of a city.

And watching the motion of legs cross from the left to the right hemisphere, as if watching life through a double window,
in a detached manner,
so close to calling it resistance,
so close to nearly having the inner force to find the desire to break the double window.

Perhaps the splinters of our lives,
as if shot on 35 mm film, reside in Hyperuranion,
where our fates reside as the primordial idea,
only leaving us in a role of a craftsmen,
and by rear chance–philosophers.
And maybe time, as after Augustinus, truly was created by God, when the sky and the land.

But earthly, I too can’t catch its full glory—
but a splinter, but a splinter.

Some things you just love,
and you love to love them:
prevalent fresh breath with a strawberry finish,
pleasant aldehydes.

Some looks just burn,
and, aflame, they guide you:
a corroded car on the highway,
where now fungi grow, nurturing a flower.

Some roads are detested,
and so, they face no suppression:
never saying hello to the acquaintance.

Some arms rise to the skies,
dreaming of affection.
Bubble gum blows into the palm of your hand.

Some hearts leave space
for opening and staying,
while other hearts hesitate,
knowing the price of paying.
Slightly opened doors have a habit of opening wider,
letting the cold in.

Oh, tenderly into the soapy landscapes,
fixed on the raw enchanting steps of greater beauty.
Counting the spiral motifs—
what are forms, and why have we named them?

Searching the space for the return,
falling asleep midway.
And all drowsy lashes on your soft eyes—wet;
tears are our own rains.

Don’t stay. Walk out of this lunar song.
Some things are not for us.
Sway all around.
Dream, don’t hold.

Only today, we have become able to touch and feel time.
Only today, heavenly—the sky has fallen onto our minds.
Only today, this soil feels omnipotent.
What once separated us from birds
is now only the flying distance.

All lost hopes of becoming beautiful end today.
All the pain on crying faces melts and evaporates today.
And the sun will never die, nor the splendid flowers
that our mothers love.

All wars shall end today,
all children will find their way
to redefine the strength of heart
that kept their breath on hold
and blurred their sight.

How beautiful it is
that there is no other day
that can be called today.

Friend’s eyes, brine-drenched,
effervescent in the sun, abyssal blue, pearls.
And the glance of a strong,
foam-laced wave,
beholding passing observers
in timidity.
Oh, fury, oh fury—
grand savage, wind-lashed waters,
let his arms go to the gulf, all selfless,
gave himself to the shore,
obliquely turned, went missing.
To the Leviathan’s corpse he turned,
never came back.
Long gone, and mourned—
seafarer’s sorrow.

Never in history,
the trajectory of mysterious occurrences
could be guessed or read linearly.
For even rain falls when
it feels it should arrive.
The alchemy of empathy is intelligent,
and so far, voluptuously intuitive—
selfless, yet in possession of great temper.

The eternal mother of ‘coup de grâce’
sweeps tears from our eyes,
once again meeting us on the return
of having faith in ourselves,
when we could fall,
if life felt, to the extreme, forlorn.

The sun prolonged the overture,

two red carnations facing his face,

his body lying on white satin.
Waxy and cold,

My face tilts toward the corpse,
no longer here, yet definitely present.

What is this feeling?

And is there a being,

or is this the swan song for his soul?

If there ever was a soul,

If there ever was an everlasting spirit,

that drives this car,
then crashes into stone,

stays alive,
but not its vehicle—

by far, it’s him alone

who continues the journey

by prudent legwork.
And as he lies there straight,

i see his pale face,

knowing that this is the farewell,

yet he’s not there to listen to goodbye—

Or is he?

Accept the two carnations, Dad,

and rest on that white satin.

The owl of Minerva only flies at dusk,
and the stellar seed of the philosophical zoo,
on its final flight, is destined to **** history.

Meanwhile, in our nocturnal richness,
it’s the galloping through our phantasmagoria that we fear the most;
for the impossibility of motion in a dream stands as a gate to unreachable power.
So, we accept a little death, it seems,
as a gift of armor,
to start the journey of breaking through.

Alternative ways do exist,
but each leads to a singular outcome:
walk through the mirror fearlessly,
and in each death find eternity.

Redemption serves a tricky role,
for Orpheus knew where all the mythos goes.
As warm water fuels the tempest,
each courteous action to foreign eyes is vice.
Heavenly canvas embroidered,
by the modest hand of noble kindness—
the one that falls the fastest,
to touch the soil in the inferno.

Fastened: requiem into the fluid motion,
and on this journey
picking from forgotten melodies:
emotions.
Each of which is the uprising wind
that most coarse, nonchalant of the dooms.
Yet if it’s let inside with open arms and loved,
opens as the oyster shell,
unraveling the pearl.
Ripened and rich in sweetness,
a fount raspberry on a meager day.

our hands,
these are our hands holding a tender white bird,
an elegant creature of signal,
feathers of brighter times,
glances of loftier views—
ones that we, on land, must wait to understand,
with time, which stands far more mysterious;
time that crumbles and stretches,
dies without being born,
lives without comprehending its body.

The war for boundless and infinite satisfaction
happens to be the most complicated—
simply because we tend to understand only finite things.
But besides,
because we despise pain,
fighting to endure only pleasure,
which itself is the most bitter poison.
Living one day with eyes closed,
another without windows and doors.

Fate of love and its corresponding time frame left asunder,
so the spikes of benevolent attention,
so the malice of brute silence.
Only already-crossed points of no return
scream their love notes in the thick, damp, and wet forest.

Dark silk-spinner is the one we blame for all things undesirable to us,
we blame him for all things that scare us.
We ourselves knit the story of unjust occurrences to catch the orb-weaver
and prove he’s the villain,
knight of hell,
where dark fumes are condensed—
malice, blind and prickly malice.

We will blindly call the clearest river ugly, gasoline-rotten,
just to save our eyes
from seeing life in truth.

In love, our fear was searching for the war,
through mezzanine escaping,
and chimneys furthermore.
Yet strength in us transformed, and love now stands for plural—
what had been singular before.

And in flights of minds, the crashing of hearts,
both on the furthest heights,
the fear was one malevolent hazard,
completely uncompromised.
Just walk beside me—
I want to know
if this is true or just my new mirage.

Looking at your eyes from underneath,
with a heart too full of words.

Imagining you see the endless journey,
bountiful panoramic views.
Let me enfold you with my soul in this forever image
of graceful frolics by the sea,
by mountains, and fields of daisies.

Please see, please see what I long for you to perceive.
Don’t let yourself go through any more turmoil.
Forget the pain,
and just keep frolicking with me.

I hold your hand and heart—
there’s no more loss,
no more horrific means.
Your eyes shall see the light,
my love and my devotion.
That’s what I will be putting in your sight.

My thoughts of gentle kindness,
birds in metamorphosis—
fly always above the sea,
as if the sea were the mind.
An individual storage of memories and missions,
to which
mortal challenges
do comply.

Going further,
they would become canaries
in the coal mines.
For each artistic sensuality,
danger is the loftier flight.
Thought, without aiming heavens
rests on the earthly side—
ambitious yet bashful,
pious to its soul’s plan.

By the nocturnal rose
stands our earthly faith,
voluptuously gentle, rising in the warm wind,
its rich wildness, opening boldly.

With no transmission of graciousness,
it, in its core being,
contains no less love,
no less primordial curiosity,
with which we fearlessly stand—grander
than the terror of not knowing,
and of being afraid to understand.

Faith, with its sister doubt,
never ceases to stem from brutal concrete,
just as early spring flowers rise,
demolishing all machinery and order,
sustaining our trust in love,
of which nature is composed.

And, reaching beyond catatonic despair,
it holds our heart with warm hands
when it is destined to produce its last beats.

Nights are liminal;
mirrors of the darkest quality,
walking through which brings
—landscapes subliminal.

Not on your warm palm lies,
neither widens your irises.
Silently, it crawls in the feverish, mysterious mind,
in which memories start to expire,
leaving you at the mute dusk,
making your body transparent,
immobile.

In a room lit by a sizzling bulb,
guarded by innumerable church icons,
no one is there in you
to believe
in higher powers.

The reality, finite,
is and is not in the sizzling bulb.
That, too,
will be finite,
terribly soon.

you’ve been in this room before.
i know you sat and counted hours
of eternal, overwhelming regret,
and walls by which you were covered—
in fear
of leaving this room,
whose windowpane doesn’t function;
even the window itself
was pierced by a bullet—
wretched, as your spirit
for willingly withholding the power
to open the door,
which you don’t even need to devour
with the glance of perpetual pain,
and the heart you cannot admire.

Hot-blooded, not frantic
And when you say,
“You are intense, all gas, no brakes,”
I feel safe to be hot-blooded.
For the second moon is discoverable,
And the path to the other side of the Styx is discernible.
If the natural speed of my being made me a traveler,
I would hope that one day
I would look—with sizzling, doomed eyes—at the face of my homeland,
Crying in gaiety for falling asleep
On the lap of the world: “settlement.”

Never was I happy being everywhere,
Nor was I while being somewhere.
All paradoxical,
Ironical—
Story.

My cold Earth, in fear
—
mother of all gods.

And we pray, we beg,
and then we fall

onto the emaciated asphalt.

No work of flouting hands,

Nothing to save, or to be saved

In these circumstances.

My dreams, fragile

As an early March bloom,

Frozen in the escalation of the doomed return

Of far worse times.

And then we reverse the cloak,

in surreptitious fashion eat the leftover air.

There is no more home
—
only the eternal return:

chimney’s smoke,

family’s lovely oak.