I see you, just who I am;  
Then your lips touch my glass,
To glide to your side as hours last,  
To die today, to find you in my name.

You see me, just who you are;    
I am fine here, and in my heart,  
That I sing your song and you sing mine,  
You are my soul, my wish, my sign.

I see you here, and your apparition;
Your shadow at those bland hours,
Our lives are but a shared petition,
Grow as a leaf, but of separate flowers.

You see me there, you talk to me;
Always wanting to be by your side,
Entwined with you but I am free,
To raise your voice, to hold your sight.

I watch you laugh, I hear you say;
I catch your dates and months away,
To feel your pulse, your soaked breaths,
The best inclusion I have ever felt.

You see me smile, you hug me;
Through these seething sun and stardom,
And their sweet drama and poem,
As the night spins around to see.

I pass you by, draw you close;
Too afraid that you may be lost,
To keep you so sweet as the night,
And its mystery forms, alright.

You stride along, and roam by me;
Too scared that I may not see,
To be the joy about the bliss,
To be the wind around the breeze.

I write your poems, fill your rhymes;
That you may have me in your times,
To chain your airs, but cheer your lips,
Surround your solid fingertips.  

You write my tales, frame my lines;
That I myself shall not resist,
All this is joy and awkward signs,
That we embrace, we heart, we miss.

I hold your hands, bring you heat;
Colour your ******* and your heartbeat,
And put your silky mind to rest,
Keeping you flavoured and chaste.

You hold my palm, give me love;
Bathe me in braids and bold of blood,
Fill me with life and veins of laugh,
You are half of me, and my heart.

I hath fall’n in love with death, again;
And those sirens in silence! Pain;
A rugged dose of fevers, rise;
All those healings are but lies.

I hath said to my doctors, too sick;
My skin is throwing, old and weak;
To chew and *****, every week;
To cast the health I should not seek.

I hath returned my sight, and see;
Hard of sayings, hard of tone,
Painlessly, being death as I can be,
To rot and vanish, all alone.

I hath veneered my light, and shut;
Drawn a satin cross across my heart,
No more loneliness, then, to see,
The Earth is being brought to me.

The fatal chaos, dances out there;
I was there about, for long hours,
But to be misconstrued as unfair,
To be at dawn, crushed and sour.

The fatal course, lingers up there;
I was not listened to, my poems,
But the weakest of my glooms,
None came to my words, nor chair.

The horrid case, remains still;
Matters no more that I am ill,
The poet, that the world shunned,
Ever on the move, the stunned.

The horrid fate, regrets still;
But to change, souls never will;
Perhaps, ‘tis only within this tomb,
Youth’s chained desires shall find a home.

The white casket, and cardboard box;
That speak of the love one knew not of;
And the tired stories that were locked,
And the paled faces feeling not enough.

The doomed gown, glowing in death;
Comes in on me as it takes my breath,
And puts my coffin atop its shade,
To forgive, and love that is too late.

And thus said, the nurses;
“We are a threat to flavoured pains,”
“We are Relief to unsaid plains,”
“We are belief to a thousand words.”

And thus said, the doctors;
“We are yet the best to the worst,”
“We are the poems to every symptom,”
“We hold the future of your poems.”

And thus said, the surgeons;
“We are those cancerous’ nightmare,”
“We have not tears in our hairs,”
“We melt the cold, we freeze the burns.”

And thus told me, the syringes;
“We are right behind thy windowsill,”
“We are a comfort to all those ill,”
“We are ever there in the morning.”

And thus sang, the medicine;
“We are the minuet of healing,”
“We are the health in singing,”
“We are what the living hath been.”

And thus bragged, the aspirins;
“We are the arms of aspiration,”
“We are the breathing’s best hints,”
“We are but delightful potions.”

And thus boasted, the drugs;
“We are cold honey to your lungs,”
“We are solemnity and hugs,”
“We are thy steadfastness, and rungs.”

Who lives to hear my shrieking songs;
And roam those scientific melodies,
But my healing is not on those lists;
I cannot so be here, for long.

Who lives to hear my ragged breath;
Insanely ill, flailing like death,
A being among the worst of charms,
The cruelest of evils, and harms.

Who moves to swallow, these tablets;
At the very sign of my last breath,
And the final shots, plain and rough;
That even they shan’t have enough.

Who moves to yield, to those tests;
The sightings that bring unrest,
The gurgling sounds that nest,
The writhing noises, in my chest.

Who wants to heal still, and erase;
The death from whom they shall run,
Who still likes to seek their face,
Dancing to youth, and mimicked fun.

Who wants to heal still, and come back;
To the gruesome crowds’ drawbacks,
To fall in laughter and get drawn,
To be engaged, but to be alone.

Who wants to heal me, and hold all;
The wishes I erased, that fall,
To be lone again, like an unborn,
To be at night, with no noise like morns.

Who wants to heal me, and bewitch;
The last of my nerves glide and twitch,
To be back in sorrow, and tomorrow,
To be the cries thou want not to know.

Who is to write to me, or read me;
The unwritten poems I could not see,
To be back in love and get torn,
To be the one birth not yet born.

Who is to write to me, to belie;
To pretend their coarse roads shan’t lie,
To pretend that there is no truth,
To pretend that age is at youth.

Who is to lie by me, to beget;
To pretend we are not rife in regrets,
To pretend all is fine, and shred—
Tears into rained clouds of fate.

Who is to lie by me, that I shall see;
This intoxicated wrath leave me,
Leaving me to the dead, thou hear,
In one minute then, I shan’t be here.

Who is to love like me, o my dear;
All I am hearing is this pain that hurts,
And all that rounds is cross and fear,
Like desperate chords, unheard.

Who is to love like thee, but not;
Thou hath cut my small story short,
And retreated like ill apparatus,
By the midnight sun, I cursed.

Who is to live like me, but weird;
Hark, I hath not any feeble heir,
To pace with the course of a poet,
To think with age, but see in youth.

Who is to live like thee, this spell;
Thou hath bound me to hell,
And while I die all shall look gray,
With my washed tears and sins of today.

Who is to curse like me, but see;
None that heard was capable of talk,
I saw none, but a sweet thee;
But that not lingered, after the walk.

Who is to curse like thee, o believe;
Who shall taste the sand of regrets,
The forgiveness I cannot yet give,
The chastity tainted with risked fate.

Who is to write like me, about;
I hath not spoken up, out loud,
When all die, souls shall behold;
That they are heat, and no longer my cold.

Who is to write like thee, around;
Where can my missing poem be found,
All I can hear is this close to my heart—
‘Tis screaming in pain, dying hard.

I fall into the rain, beneath me;
My sky a glittery dust to thee,
Calling the joy I hath not met,
Thou cometh sweetly, but late.

I fall into the cold, and just me;
Only I understand the clouds,
Oh! I cannot seek that ‘tis so loud,
Too much noise, sickly around me!

Those fallen tears around my head;
The soundlessness of one’s fate,
And hark, in such quietness,
The decrepit being of hotness!

Those ragged stars about my hair;
Closing in on me, and my air,
With hues dyed in drowned sunshine,
But proud still, in its dried signs.

For such heat hath closed me;
Hath sifted me away from you.
For such guilt hath haunted me;
Hath kept me away anew.

For such a love, that thou felt;
But not yet felt again, today,
The gaze that I once beheld,
The words my heart cannot say.

Wherefore art thou, my beloved;
For t’is passion is tainted but pure,
To behold, to instill, to demure,
The meaning of this first love.

Wherefore art thou, my paint;
These poems hath not been said,
I see chaos, and not a flesh of fate,
I hath been loving in vain.

Wherefore art thou, my gaze;
Why cannot I see you through my face,
To hear such a bountiful voice,
To be about thee, in this bliss.

Wherefore art thou, my voyage;
I cannot stay this sober longer,
And hysteria, turning into sobs,
Like death, as my heart throbs.

Wherefore art thou, my colour;
Bestowed on thee my honour,
And age, with my fleeting skin,
Waiting in haste, to be seen.

Wherefore art thou, my winter;
Having too many doubts in summer,
Awaiting a lover that lasts,
By the moonlight and stardust.

Wherefore art thou, my rain;
And the sung that sings again,
To release my midnight, its pain—
To be my beloved, then.

Wherefore art thou, my kiss;
I can see your solemnity,
A thousand unsung melodies,
To bless, to make love to me;

Wherefore art thou, my art;
Too much of me is in my heart,
But none with a charm like thee,
Like the poet in fire, that in me.

Wherefore art thou, my sword;
I am bland now, and unheard,
Unheard as the rain that falls,
Amongst the sheltered walls.

Wherefore art thou, my piano;
The sound that arriveth late,
But not late to be my memento—
To remove all conscious hate.

Wherefore art thou, my word;
Improvised but reckless, my Lord,
Ah! Calm but poisonous, like me,
A fastidious silver, like thee.

You are made of the stars, and in haste
You put my love and my heart to rest;
You are like and unlike a dream today
But I have dreamt since last night
I am a ghost to the resting world;
As much as my poems are, as my words.

You are made of life, hell and heaven;
But I am too far away to breathe your air
And in your pristine eyes, such moments
Are a piece of untouched, unreal affairs
You are but a star to me, not a reality;
I oft’ see you on those stages of beauty.

Who be with me here, ‘tis awkward;
His aura is not thine, I assume,
And his lips, which are blue, blind mine;
Who hath saluted me in the worst of storms
And still, I could not trust for long;
But you may find for me another song.

Who be with me here, ‘tis strange;
Your love is sadly, not in such range,
And my whining is deemed absurd;
I am entrapped in a loud world.
What is a charm then, when not thine?
What are the workings of one’s mind?

What be this song I sing to you, my love;
In a word so surreal and full of images,
In a cry so full of anger and rage;
In a mortal chain but of my sonata,
I cannot afford to hate my enemies,
I cannot be the least of kisses.

What be this poem but of thee, my darling;
In the graphs that carry you, in grayness;
In a pertinence of shots, and obedience,
All those frozen moments of resilience.
You, standing there in silence, to say
You will charm me through the night and day.

I looked at the sore stars last night;
And one looking like you, that high
I cannot reach such heights, to see
To love you then, my celebrity;
Her heart hath taken you from me,
Leaving my youth alone to sick poetry.

I looked at such grey film, and thought;
Their births were not those of my books,
That even being in love is not sane,
I am not among the best of their men;
Even my love is not lithe to you, and him;
That such bounties are to remain a dream.

For the rose to see me, on rainy nights
To sit by me and the Northern Lights;
To watch the rain stop and stand still,
To comprehend the fetal crush I feel.
I see my naked heart, on the rough floor
Battered and smothered outside the door.

For the sun to shine on me, on cold nights
And to bring you over, my starlight
To walk me down the earths of fame;
And to make time recognize my name,
To tame such an unloved fate, and seem
Like all these are not just a dream.

For my crush to walk me, to your heart
To feel the excitement of loved delights;
Perhaps my lover, is not a celebrity,
But a reality to be handed to me,
To replace my faded fame that was stolen;
To free me from my shielded torments.

For such a continuation, and rain
For the rain I always long to have;
The one separated from me, like you,
I may wish for such longings to be untrue,
As there is no continuation in reality,
But dreams, they are to me an eternity.

For there is no virtue, and unlike thee,
My beauty is no good to myself;
Perhaps the highest misery lies in me,
And this loneliness is virtuous poetry.
For there is no handsomeness like yours,
But ‘tis only a dream to be in your arms.

I walk away silently, as always;
You are not acquainted with my ways.
Who am I to actuate a dreamy kiss;
I am not even a retort to lying bliss.
There is no fate in our hands, ah;
I have been consumed by all fiends.

I read away in silence, as always;
For love hath seemed too awkward to me,
There is too much sunshine every day;
That I am blind, I am not sweet to beauty.
Just like the famous days you celebrate;
I am not to know my own self, even late.

For love hath seemed to cruel to me,
One that consumes me with too much vigour,
Too insolent in its youth, merciless;
Mercies have left it, and not returned;
Love has corrupted, and stained me now,
What my edge shall bring I not know.

For love hath too much intensity, so now
I may and may not be able to love you though,
To say your love to me out of this dream,
To make all that scream sounds possible;
To make me trust, more than it seems,
To make this sore heart endurable.

For love hath broken me, and my vow
To love you might not be the one now;
Love hath had my chastity too high,
That knowledge may not be amicable;
That my prominence is but not the sky;
That my memories are not speakable.

For love hath had me, rendered me low
I am not noticed by my window;
And everything in my midair looks stale
And all of my sins may not be purified.
I am tortured and conjured in my shell,
But no love shall amend it right.

For love hath spent me, and stepped on me
Breaking my every inch of beauty;
But what is my beauty—a history to all,
I am not known beyond my artist’s wall;
I am a silence, to all circles and worlds,
I am not heard beyond my murdered words.

Whilst the nights look like his lips;
He, Vladimir, that I once loved,
And love still now, when I sleep;
And miss now, when I weep.

Whilst the skies look like his eyes;
He, Vladimir, that hath but left,
My soul at the rage of Leningrad;
His goodbyes then erased my heart.

And when I look into the sun, apart;
I cannot but see the naïve Jakarta,
Trembling and groaning and moaning by its heat--
that its brown rain is not too sweet.

And when I gaze into the sea, the ocean;
The sandy scene turns evil bliss,
With a vile scent that rips, and burns--
A part of me that was pleased.

And when I stare at the heat, and its meat;
My souls collapse, they cannot meet,
There are hazards in its singing;
Violence in its newborn spring.

Wha else is sweet but Vladimir’s hand;
There was art then, like that in the rain,
What cold I felt, but that of love--
The feelings then, were more than enough.

What else is love but Vladimir’s eyes;
That my mercy rises to live again,
What is triumph, what is victory;
And all, without my Vladimir in me.

What else is laugh but Vladimir’s gaze;
In there are so much laughter, and idyll,
The ones that speak--the grass feels,
The ones I sought from East to West!

What else are tears but Vladimir’s mad;
What is in love but my own joy;
A joy that is too sad, and now immune--
To this untouched love, the worlds’ tune.

Give me back, o my Vladimir to me;
He was too sweet, that I could not see--
And with a smile he opened my heart
To the cold curtains of Leningrad.

Bring me back, my Vladimir to me;
Tell the whole world look to look vintage,
For my flesh not to carry my age;
And for the Heat not to be seen.

And how can I but not love Leningrad?
With its water, sonorous past--
The magnolia tree there hath friended me;
And which sounds so sweet but she?

And how can I but not love Vladimir;
For his orotund and resonant clauses,
That the birds lakeside loved to hear
Beside the beds of daffodils and roses.

The grandiose melodies, I hear;
Those reminding me of his Light, and sleep--
The ones my heart turned to see,
And were so sweet as his lips.

The ornate feelings, I have here;
The feelings looking short and weird;
But the obedience of life, and Fate--
That we cannot reject, now or late.

The florid roses, and their music
They made my Vladimir looked too sleek;
And so clean as his sea of blue eyes;
Trembling my heart, soaking my nights.

The unsung chords, the lovely song
But nothing lasted a night, nor long;
My Vladimir hath gone from his dreams;
Nor could my other days see him.

The unheard love, the black poetry
That I writ here, oft’ with passion;
That my heart can again be free,
From this longing, from such poisons;

The unspoken, unwritten love;
My Vladimir hath yet to see,
That I hath not once left my thought
of him, and what Leningrad is to be;

The unsorted, untold stories;
I hath not forgiven my own sorry,
I cannot think behind the cold breeze--
My Vladimir might be there, might see me.

The pompous cheer, the fake chills
None is too genuine, and yet;
Why are those all Leningrad can feel,
Why do them make my hearts sad?

The painted hills, the brown forests
Why my heart cannot be at rest;
And why Leningrad can be scandalous
At the most obedient of times?

I cannot see you, but I still hear
Your moonlit voice that I feel near;
And your steps that made me sleep
Ringing loud in my soul so deep.

I cannot hear you, but I still feel
You are about me, my Vladimir;
And why this love seems so blue
Because ‘tis genuine, ‘tis true;

I cannot feel you, but I still sense
That such love too is insane;
That sanity too is my friend,
That we shall meet, and love again;

I cannot sense you, but I still see
That my heart seems to go that far;
To you, to bring you back to me
To our unsung hours in Leningrad.

I cannot see you, but I listen
To the city that makes love fair;
And the story that brought us there,
If only you could be here.

I cannot see you, but I recall
The loveliness there, down the halls;
And the forest--as we walked along,
And stopped by to hear their song.

I cannot see you, but you are here;
Calling out to me that you are near;
And to you, I shall come out
To say my love once more, out loud;

I cannot see you, but you are true
And without you, all hath been blue;
To be with you again, in my heart
To be back in love with Leningrad.

I cannot see you, but you are there
And your love makes Leningrad so fair;
To be your star, and your moonlight
To be in your arms at the gliding night.

I cannot see you, but you love me;
And your love shall make me see
To be my sky, and my rainforests;
To put my clouded heart to rest.

I cannot see you, but you want me
As much as love itself is true;
And as much as Leningrad is to be
As much as our love can be, anew.

I cannot see you, but I want you
And your time as much as mine;
You make me insane, and blind
You are unreal, but then true;

I cannot see you, but I love you
So much as Leningrad anew;
And your heart is what I have here;
And your song is what I hear.

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
     Thy tribute wave deliver:
No more by thee my steps shall be,
     For ever and for ever.

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,
     A rivulet then a river:
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be
     For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder tree
     And here thine aspen shiver;
And here by thee will hum the bee,
     For ever and for ever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee,
     A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be,
     For ever and for ever.

Human, itself being a founded note;
Born and dead on our short horizon,
And Time, our delusion and destination
That shall taint us, but blessed with Years.

Birth, itself being a feat of nature;
Towering above our beats and vision
That binds our imagination, and be
The Perfumed Life that came true.

Life, itself being a precarious gift;
That shall disobey within its Time,
And its frame, a disgrace to us all
Shall befall us, halting all our Hearts.

Second, that comes within minutes;
And goes again by the end of the day
Admonished into the Wind, and see—
Time is too violent still, indeed!

Minutes, that injects made Hours into us;
That lingers by but too shall fade,
That all we have is a vivid parade,
And its notes a fake chain of choirs!

Hours, being the tomb of various lies,
And the secrets we have held now;
From the womb, and through our Years—
Witnessing all through our lapsed visions!

Days, being the chosen way to live;
And the present of Time to give,
We shall ignore all feverish truces,
But make the fruitful of all, peace!

Weeks, being the collective nights, ah!
With thousands of secrets and demerits,
That all we see may contain a pace;
In the worried maze of our world, again!

Months, being the rigorous catch alone;
That all champagne may sound forlorn,
For a melody is once, and then torn
We speed fast indeed, every morn!

Years, but we should be at Pace;
That our eyes be calm, and not wander,
After one another's wonder, and bliss,
For Peace do exists, within Life's ease!

Peace, and we all shall be Joy;
And such Joy we cannot destroy,
To live with sweat, and happy cheeks
To entertain brief Months, and Weeks!

Eyes, and in such Peace we see;
That not all souls provide their space,
But not to worry, and keep your pace
In the East and West, be a Heart at rest!

Chest, being the place where Heart rests;
And the emotions that Life tests,
Whether to be strong, or weak—
Whether to revenge, or to forgive!

Heart, itself being an obedient fun;
Healing again aft' broken by one,
Yet I do find t'is at times oblivious,
And such meant forgiveness is tedious!

Vein, itself being a remote rose;
That threads Life into all morning prose,
And kills all venom in naïve pores,
But too to die, amidst the chosen chores!

Age, being a sign of a frail human;
Neither majestic nor grandiose,
For there is no happiness lasting forever,
Neither does prejudice, but Time.

Blood, being alive only with beats;
Is not by anyone called merit,
But to speak of any Truth, it hurts,
And upon such pains, it freezes!

Skin, feel the touch of the good and beasts;
The sick of the flesh and hereafter,
And Faith, the one that should be longer,
Would you but ****, would you but ****?

Faith, feel the insane and harmony;
And in all arrays of immunity shall pray,
That all alive shall be golden, alone,
That all that breathes stays salubrious.

Fire, a blazing energy alone;
But not of a pleasing idea, indeed,
And who stays alive after doses of Fire—
Whose soul shall love, who shall admire?

Sun, spreading its abyss and sharp rays;
For Dark is violated in her, and see,
Everywhere we see but raging Fire,
And syringes of Fire, again, shall ****!

Dark, spreading its wings to raided pits;
But there is a little Light, dimly wit,
That we all should not leave tossed,
To find our way, not to get lost!

Cold, a blatant whisper, and fever;
That all human fleshes are feverish,
None is taken in everlasting bliss,
None encourages eternal blessings, ah!

Rage, an apparent command, and aye;
A weariness explained to all souls,
That tastes bitter at present, and later,
Living indeed, in here and the afterlife!

Anger, a feared one—a polar of tears;
Ice and Smoke blended into worn fits of fears,
A scream denied by what one hears,
A turmoil of scars boiling up high!

Laugh, a genuine smile, but hurts;
As though plainness was preferred,
But never true, for such views are
Provisions, to the normal communes' hearts!

Smile, the smothered voice, and bless;
Make all our veins worry much less,
And render all miseries, again, unhappy,
Bless your tender soul with fine poetry!

Tone, being the voice of its martyred soul;
Diving into the throats of fishy and foul,
Of which raging minds that we hold no clue,
Of the times of death—the ends of breath.

Chords, being the music of the tragic;
To some, whose magic sounds so meek,
Always buoyant, but ne'er sleek,
To the artist's challenged mind, watch!

Song, being the allergy of the night;
For such Hours prefer silence, alright,
Only to demerited souls, and again—
Such normal souls are barely our friends.

Poem, being the silence our souls seek;
Being the tightness to hold on to, see,
Being the Flawless Moon we fight to be,
Being the heart that keeps us alive.

Sweet, being the very art that awaits;
The pretty picture we see, and writ,
At the most romantic hours, and late
The most honest insight into my soul.

Words, being the art we move and paint;
So ardently, and within a housed vault,
That is at peace with those green bushes,
And the broad, frozen shoulders of Night!

Graphs, being the drawing of the artist;
Being the silent cold that we love,
Being a river as lovely as Vincent,
Being an adornment like a friend!

Lakes, being an admitted raindrop;
In which flow our dropped gloom and misery,
And Seas and Oceans wrapped in giggles,
That in their triumph spread, to all souls.

Seas, being an Ocean full of lives;
The hive of bees, sharks, and olives,
The knot of cries, screams, and laughter,
Growing as ever, together and forever.

Oceans, bearing waves of Sadness and Joys;
Of pains that were once solemnly borne,
Of anguish that hath somberly gone,
Of gladness of being sober, alone.

Sunset, being the edge of anxieties;
And when rain comes, all beings cheer,
Attending Midnight's capricious fair—
And the dance of spring sights, full of joy.

Night, being the love of all charities;
And the living forgiveness wished well,
The place where, anew, hopes are born;
The lodging where all dreams come true.

Dawn, being the sight of Newness;
Whenst all wakes up in sighs of happiness,
And celebrate living in frantic breaths,
Life stirred up once more, and be met.

Light, being the Aurora of Joy;
Like the one reborn in the universe,
That we oft' see in the skies of Helsinki,
Be the true love you and I can see.

Wind, being our own saluted breeze;
And to our charms is never late,
That, before the storm, shall kiss us,
With a stirring Warmth that shall last.

Haze, being the panorama of late;
The renewal of old, agitated Fate,
The forgiven sins we fluently see,
The most adored destiny we will be.

Fate, being the fullest of our dreams;
And more obvious than they seem,
That Fate is fair, and not a nightmare,
The one being true lovers shall share.

Mate, being the most advanced lover;
With deep passion shining forever,
And awake, in each other's slumber—
Not to betray, nor harm, never.

Joy, being the most prominent soul;
The core of all painters and poets,
The heart of all lovers and tales,
To wait for thee, to love me.

Warmth, being the most prudent of all;
The most sought in this crowded world,
And the Charms and Love that come with it,
Being the very Fate we have longed to greet.

Charm, being the Truthful of those;
With a heartbeat as grand as every prose,
And to wait for its eternal rose,
To forgive truly, to heal each loss.

Truth, being the most stellar itself;
In which Love forms its paradise,
And to wait for its longest bliss,
To enjoy all sights; embrace their mists.

Love, being the truest of all that rests;
The most desired in a human's chest,
And to wait for our true Love be,
To wait truly, and most patiently.