Run away, since my anger has no end,
It's your light that has led me through anguish, through hurt and dark,
But your love had you seized - and you easily gave me up.
I'm not to distinguish an enemy from a friend,

I'm not to believe our family can be healed.
Run away, little Sister. I cannot be stopped or ceased,
A beast's the one that always spawns a beast,
Satan's the one who needn't be saved or peeled,

The apple falls not very far from the apple tree.
I remember us, children, we had our faith, our love,
We believed that His aid would descend from the skies above.
Run away, little Sister, since it will never come.

Just take my love, and never leave behind,
From heart to heart, forever are we binded.
I'll steal your kiss - be calm and fear not.
Without you I'm no one but a nought.

When at night, you yield to my ploy,
You quake and dither - I begin to joy
Your scarlet cheeks, your breaking voice, your tone,
Your wrath lasts not and turns into a moan.

When at day, blue roses are your throne, 
A hoop of gold, a ring of precious stones,
Just be my queen, oh, God's superb creation!
Your heart is cold to my complete obeisance.

Your thoughts are not of King, but of a shepherd,
They're full of love - desired, ardent, terpid...
I'll have him caught and killed by very morning,
The sweetest song for me will be your mourning.

Writhing in agony, calling the name of yours,
As it's to save me or maybe, of some importance,
I am to remember the day when my oak door,
Opened by you as a part of an art performance,

Made the sound of joy (so I thought, when I saw you first,
Laughing, choking and literally, aware
Of me being zealous and feeling this very thirst)
Your curse never fled in the end of a love affair.

Now, I'm writing poems, and every day,
Like a mirror, my memory replicates you.
Coming closer and teasing, you never walk away,
As if you are the only truth and the only safety.

In the matter of truth – you can handle my light and love,

I just need you to raise your eyes

And to light up the starry skies.

You are always good enough.



In the matter of joy – I am playing a silly game,

I am sharing my dreams with the childish and tricky boy.

Trust me, sweetie, I'll never become annoyed 

With calling twice a minute your lucky name.



In the matter of life – just give me your fragile heart,

Open your eyes and soul – and shake my hand.

I will share your journey until the end.

No one will tear us two apart.

we do not deserve the truth – it's too marvellous inside 
and too dangerous on the edge of the minds and hearts. 
what are you choosing now? you should decide – 
no one is tearing us apart.   

we do not deserve the love – it's too magical and insane, 
like the summer after the long-long frosts. 
now you are coming to me again – 
lonely, sorrowful, so lost.   

we do not deserve the life – it's too powerful and too strong, 
it's destroying us and it's breaking us inside. 
what are you choosing now? where do you belong? 
that's the matters you finally should decide.

I first saw my grandma knitting when I was five. 
Wool yarn flowing through her fingers, 
As if it was a fairy tale by the brothers Grimm.
Magic was happening, giving birth to another 
sweater, or another scarf, or a dress I was probably going to wear. 

 I first saw a fashion magazine at the age of eight. 
It was full of clothes, full of bright, extravagant colours, 
I was amazed by this variety of art it kept inside,
a little girl facing her nature, her passion, her desire. 

 I was twelve when I first visited Germany &
realised that fashion had never been this far from people. 
Oaf boots and cerulean sweaters I was seeing everywhere
As a complete outsider, an offspring of another world. 

It was years after that I understood. 
Clothes are what we see & beauty is what we cherish,
But, if it is filth that you carry on the inside, 
It can never be covered by a little black dress.

Tipton Poetry Journal
July, 2019

Like a raven in the storm,
Or a pure angel's form,
Like a sparkling star at night,
A warrior in his fight,
There comes love.

I have not seen 
Love as easy as a dream,
Full of struggle, full of pain,
Blest or fatal, real or feigned, 
It corrupts and it exalts:
A weapon that assaults.

Like a jewel, love unsights
Mean and noble, saint and trite,
Flies away and then, returns,
Laughs and smiles, prays and yearns,
Like the guile of your eyes,
Or the devil in disguise,
There comes love.

Come here, dance with me, my love,
And in the passion shall we move. 
I'll leave a kiss upon your brow
And give you my perpetual vow.

Under the feet is golden sand,
You dance with me, so I demand.
I'll be your friend, your knight, your shield,
To my desire shall you yield.

My queen, my dove, shall not you falter
While walking to the altar.
With my love, I thee wed,
And white lilies will be our bed. 

Come here, be with me, my love,
And all my feelings shall I prove. 
At dawn, be mine, my bride, my queen,
Beyond one's reach, a distant dream.

I remember it as vividly
as if it was yesterday.
His body lying next to mine
in complete silence.
Reaching out to one another
in a simple gesture.
It was another Italian summer on the Riviera,
fulfilled with red wine, pineapple juice,
lectures on history and music.
It was another Italian dream
slowly turning into the nightmare.
A tiny bookstore at the corner of the street.
Closed in the morning,
usually full of people later in the evening.
They had been laughing, drinking,
probably discussing another collection of poetry
that had just come out.
I met him there, standing in the dark
with a glass of port in his hand.
Later that night, he loved me on the beach.
He loved me at his mother's old house
when we came to pay her a visit.
He loved me at his ex-lover's party
a weekend after we'd met.
He loved me everywhere.
He was the someone given to me to enlighten
those jours caniculaires.
I was a woman; he was a man.
A perfect match, so to say.
A perfect one, but not the only one
out of variety.
I loved loving him as much as I loved
the way my body felt his
while he was on top of me.
I loved him almost as much
as I loved myself.
What was it, the affair that had started
in the tiny city, at the tiny bookstore
somewhere on the Italian Riviera?..

I look at you.

No one is more beautiful just because no one can replicate you,

copy you, be the way you are.

Your golden hair, your little pinky mouth may seem something of commonness, but your eyes contain such an inner sense no one is able to possess.

I love you. I've never met you, seen you or touched you, but I feel every inch of you

as if you were close to me, as if you were here.

The way you sing,

the way you move & smile makes me tremble every time I think of you.

You're the sunshine; the one I can never reach, the one I can never resist to admire.

Were you right next to me, maybe that inner beauty would have disappeared? Maybe you'd turn into an ordinary human being.

We'll never know.

I prefer you to stay this far from me, far enough to save that mystique of yours, that inner peculiarity & angelic essence.

You look at the star. It is smiling,

dancing in the sky. Romeo & Juliette,

Jack & Rose—looks like every story

repeats itself in some certain way.


The sky,

who's been chewing clouds

all day long, is now full

of these shining, gilded little creatures.


They'll show you the way,

they will guide you to your Juliette

waiting for you in her own Verona.


A shooting star is falling down,

breaking, screaming, striving—make a wish!

Juliette is far away, Rosaline is standing

right next to you, blushing in her pure glamor.


Her lips are two petals calling your name.

Romeo! Estimate her beauty,

since it is something you can reach

at this very moment.

With you, my love, I'm standing in the light,
A little lantern's hanging right above us.
This face of yours, this blooming, starry night
Like sparkling wine, is poured in our glasses.

Today's the answer, what we're to become?
When I seek, I struggle with a feeling,
This evening's falling like a shooting star,
And every move is trembling and revealing.

In every glance I see the very end,
In every touch I whim the very hope,
And silver bracelet wrapped around your hand,
And on my lips the smell of cigarette smoke,

And every piece is tortured by our fate,
And every part is trying to avoid it.
All I desired was to feast, to sate,
And all that rests is throe of a poet.

I'll write to you.

The summer's full of joy,
The rays are shining mildly and slightly.
I feel my burden's finally destroyed,
And freedom's arms are holding me so tightly.

I'll write to you.

The time is flying - soon
These days will change, the autumn's coming closer.
The air's so nice this afternoon,
The Wind's pretending he's a great composer.

I'll write to you.

No more about love. You're right, who deem 
It brings back pain and longing.

I'll write to you.

Our love was a dream
We have to say goodbye to in the morning.

So take my love, and never leave behind,
From heart to heart forever are we binded.
Your lips I kiss, your eyes I see, your nose,
So shall I write in poetry, in prose,

So shall I chant a velvet, darkened rose,
With my pen, describe her flirty pose?
The one who deems can never be a poet,
The one who feels is closer to approach it.

I watch you dance. A gilded royal gown,
Your hair like birds, or some delightful crown,
Be mine, my dove, my distant dream when morning
Is giving life, or sharing someone's mourning.

So take my love, my heart, my admiration,
And every inch of my devoted passion.
I watch you sleep. Your eyes are closed, your breathing
Is on my lips, inviting, flyrring, teasing...

Years ago I heard a story

about a woman trying

to find herself, but

escaping herself instead.

It's been a long time since then,

and I still ask myself:

what does escape mean?


Changing your hairstyle, or

moving to another place

doesn't make you

a different person.

No one can escape

themselves, as far as

the ocean's blue,

and the Earth is round.


Years after years,

I'd come to realize,

I did succeed in escaping

My child self.

Peter Pan has flown away,

I am all grown up,

And I still ask myself:

What do I have left?

Today is a rainy day in New York.


I go in the rain having no umbrella;
I feel it, drop by drop, jumping on my face.
People are coming through,
having umbrellas above their heads,
as if it were some huge eagles on the little stalks.


You always stay home on a rainy day,
As if it were a ritual, a tradition.
You skip or cancel all the affairs you have planned for such a day.
You stay home. You work. You write.
When I leave a goodbye kiss on your lips,
I feel those salty drops right on them.
You don't want rain near you,
You don't need him.
He is you.

I hate the knowing that one day
We'll be gone,
When the sun is spreading rays,
Or when the dawn

Is scarlet, violet, blue or green,
The burning sky...
And all our thoughts, and all our dreams 
Will have to die.

But don't mourn until it's done!  
Just hold my hand. 
If time cannot be outrun,
Then I demand 

Your love, your soul, your fervid kiss
And talks at night.
And no second shall we miss,
We are alive.

To chose and be chosen,

These two never go together.

To love and be loved,

It's either fantastical or impossible.

We are victims of this nature balance

Watching from the above,

Making laugh of us.

Everything happens because of fate,

Or because of God,

We can never run our destinies.

A human heart is a sponge,

Absorbing tragedies and dramas.

A distant dream can make it alive again,

A single touch can make it tremble.

What if happiness is just a needle,

Pricking it every time we love?

Having no heart

Is either mythical or Utopian.

What are we, if not a blood clot,

A bunch of bones & meat?

Having a human heart

Is what makes us something else.

Human beings.

All our lives, we lose.

It is as natural, as living itself.


Losing a ticket you bought

to see a ballet performance

is saving you from its ugliness,

disappointment, squalor.

Losing a chance to see your beloved

is keeping you both from a fracas.


Every loss comes by with an undertone.

Existence itself is losing,

hour by hour, minute by minute

you lose your time, your life,

your organism.

What is it that's keeping us all here?

Isn't it simply a fear?


We cannot believe this world will stand,

years after years, centuries after centuries, without us.

This fear is what makes us human,

and losing is what makes us alive.