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The scattered words disturb the silence. I prefer written pages with my left hand, But it is trembling too much to write slowly I miss him, his calm hands giving juicy oranges. Shattered glass falls in slow motion, Screams in the apartment, Just the neighbor next door. Another struggle, Another soundless fracture From the outside, It’s not visible What really hurts. I have my refuge. My piano and fingertips Strike the rhythm, Racing to speak in time. What I want to repeat to myself It isn’t lush or gentle, Only barren, like thoughts hung on a dry twig. I trace figure eights, Locked in a simple shape. I stare and cannot fathom The logic of a cold two plus two. A thought-form circles Around the blue planet. Something pointing, With its mercury finger. It speaks in an unknown dialect It shows the place to live And huge fluorescent deserts. The clouds’ minds — A piece of earth Soaked in different Kinds of screams. This is my blind chance. I was born here. In my mother’s paradise garden Spinning in dawn’s glow. Sometimes I just write To ease personal and common guilt. I hear tattooed numbers, Granting citizenship of the lower caste. And here, The fresh scent of good life in the morning. Blackbirds and thrushes fell silent. My mother knows how to speak to them, I know how to speak with trees. Everything pulses, On this small piece of earth, Giving shelter to creatures And stones no one throws. I am here in a place I can happily bear, Without cold speculation. I can still dive into metaphors, This is my greatest luxury, The gift after so many disturbing lives. It would be better to create a world With only diverse breathing gardens. I don’t need too much for living, A naked soul is enough for me. So, I am sitting in this landscape And I peacefully hope That my daughter will remember me tenderly As I remember him, my father And all who passed away. The simplest thing is The presence of every human being It's like a celluloid film strip Left behind the broken ribs In the left ventricle of the heart That never lies, never cheats me.
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Sep 3, 2025
Sep 3, 2025 at 3:13 PM UTC
Anchor of Blue Planet
The scattered words disturb the silence. I prefer written pages with my left hand, But it is trembling too much to write slowly I miss him, his calm hands giving juicy oranges. Shattered glass falls in slow motion, Screams in the apartment, Just the neighbor next door. Another struggle, Another soundless fracture From the outside, It’s not visible What really hurts. I have my refuge. My piano and fingertips Strike the rhythm, Racing to speak in time. What I want to repeat to myself It isn’t lush or gentle, Only barren, like thoughts hung on a dry twig. I trace figure eights, Locked in a simple shape. I stare and cannot fathom The logic of a cold two plus two. A thought-form circles Around the blue planet. Something pointing, With its mercury finger. It speaks in an unknown dialect It shows the place to live And huge fluorescent deserts. The clouds’ minds — A piece of earth Soaked in different Kinds of screams. This is my blind chance. I was born here. In my mother’s paradise garden Spinning in dawn’s glow. Sometimes I just write To ease personal and common guilt. I hear tattooed numbers, Granting citizenship of the lower caste. And here, The fresh scent of good life in the morning. Blackbirds and thrushes fell silent. My mother knows how to speak to them, I know how to speak with trees. Everything pulses, On this small piece of earth, Giving shelter to creatures And stones no one throws. I am here in a place I can happily bear, Without cold speculation. I can still dive into metaphors, This is my greatest luxury, The gift after so many disturbing lives. It would be better to create a world With only diverse breathing gardens. I don’t need too much for living, A naked soul is enough for me. So, I am sitting in this landscape And I peacefully hope That my daughter will remember me tenderly As I remember him, my father And all who passed away. The simplest thing is The presence of every human being It's like a celluloid film strip Left behind the broken ribs In the left ventricle of the heart That never lies, never cheats me.
Agnes-de-Lodz
Written by
48/F/Poland
Sep 3, 2025
Sep 3, 2025 at 3:13 PM UTC
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