I was high up, flying.
So I took the lights
On the land as
                         Stars.

But I cannot make out
From where came the lightning?

How I adore the
poetic verses of the moon.
Not the sun,
Not the stars,
but only my moon.

From a balcony of clouds
above me, the moon whispers
and throws a star.
Ah, but the moon shines as twice
as bright as the star it throws.

I would fly to heaven
just to be with my moon,
Where the silver beams
would color my hair white.

Oh, what a poem would I write
if I could make the moon
Mine, all mine ...

Sending vines of thorns
to grow upon high stone walls.

  *- I will touch every star in the sky...

Far away
in the forbidden
forest of thoughts,
where i often forget
to remember again.
I can see burning autumn
leaves that gently dance in
the breeze, creating a swirl
of golden memories.
And watch the unspoken words
lapping beside glowing faces.
Listen to the trembling voices,
Tired and wondering
If I was by their side.

*,, Do not hide,
for in the morning we can
take the chance by flying away,,

Sailing through the
midnight sky,
Sailing through the
midnight sea,
in a boat of moon.

Fishing for my dream,
so far
Fishing for my dream,
so near
My rope - a single moonbeam
and my bait- one silver star

charcoal lines define her face,
personal oils upon finger's tips
guide and blend her shape.
her highlights remain untouched
pure as paper, so smooth yet so rough.
she pulls away what she desires.
braised, there is no escape from her textured weight.
chiaroscuro female formations,
she hides her parts within the light.
solid, flakey, waiting for her fixative
tiny pieces may slip away
as broken memories of dark,
but chiaroscuro she was.