some would argue that others don't believe in tears
I would say they push the tears into clouds
they rain horror on our mouths' sky
despair on our skin's topography
disjointed jaws displace the mind
disembodied voices displace the soul

they look at reality with raven eyes
a tzar without empire and a fool like me/you/us
they wage war on reality but
I promised myself a war on tears
I return some shadows to the dark
past is like a bird that forgot the magnetic mind
the enemy is kept in ckeck for two hundred years,
a fabricated reality hotter than a lover
a freedom colder than a heart without pulse
without an enemy there is no identity  
this is a trappping thought and
clandestine thoughts write history, rewrite destinies
we stare at hope on blind windows but
we promise ourselves a war against numbness
against depression bleached in abandoned factories
an anxiety deeper than the weight of time
wages war on imagination
this future is held hostage by hands without silence
our cities suffocate whispers and we gaze at truth with vacant eyes:
a king without a throne, a wanderer, like me

The Iliad echoed in my ears as I gazed at his back-
The curve of his spine, the curl of his hair,
I laughed,
And they call me a God.

Those who call me a God have never seen him.
Not the way I have.
Unburdened by his title.
The title I placed upon him.

And I longed for the war: for the battle shouts and the fighting.
I looked away from him.
Was I doomed- doomed in the way that fabled Warrior was?
No. No I will not.

I will not sacrifice my love,
As Achilles so sacrificed his.
Hephaestion lays beside me,
Skin hot and copper-gold.

Achilles loved, and so did I-
Not with the weakness of men-
But the Hunger of Gods

As I sing this song,
I sing with ghosts,
Sit with the lost,
Harmonising with those

Who tell a tale
That’s long and old.
With an ending
That’s never been told.

They show me all
The grief they’ve seen,
Peeling paint
And tear streaks.

I think I’ll stay here for a while,
Until the world quiets down.

Din graiul tău, se-nalță veșnicie,
Pe buze tremuri, cald ca o cântare.
Mi-ești lege, dor și sfântă temelie,
Un far de foc, în nopți fără hotare.

Sudoare, jertfe, veacuri de durere,
Fii punte, peste timpi ce ne separă.
Din dorul tău, să naștem mângâiere,
Mândră ești, a noastră pururi țară!

In the new world of books,
Where the hungry mind's meal is cooked.
Laid ancient artifacts.
Golden treasure that the unborn yearn to behold.
This treasure caught my busy sight,
Which hungers for root of the rare gem.
My legs drove me here like a fast bike.
It covers 5 meters in a second,
Just to take a glimpse this diamond.
A mountain of books.
An ocean of map, a guide to today's writers.
Their quills had dried up long ago,
Yet their words still drip ink on our tongues.
Scrolls of Aristotle and Shakespeare won war.
The war against time that makes things lost.
Your words are not trend that are visitors.
But your ink is like the earth that never stop.
Your ink shine as though made now.
I use your ink in writing this scroll.
Ink men of today still drip your ink on their scroll.
Will our ink still shine if time tests the scroll?

Aimless, still there stands the piano
Its soothing nocturne was heard long ago
Now for many years this house has been silent
Hidden in a hill looking back to old, glamorous days, with longing
The countesses and queens were laughing in that corner
The kings and commanders were making invasion plans in this chamber
The music was ceaseless
People danced rejoicefully
The paintings are no longer wearing a vibrant palette recently
The wooden furniture is groaning
It’s a forgotten place and negligible
As much as the memories were created in
Now it’s called history.

who sighs through the hollow spaces of time

light was tortured till it denied its colours
these roots are echoes of a silent voice without name
the wind seeks to unravel the knots of forgotten stories
who listens to the pulse beneath the silence
who dares to taste the corrosion of truth, the glow of feeling
the walls of the mind crumble into whispers of the unseen stories
we leap into the storm as if into rebirth
we trace our essence from one shadow to the other
let's unravel the fabric, step beyond the echo
a restless dawn bears the weight of tomorrow
who will…
fill the chambers of longing with the murmur of hopes
let poetry be no fugitive
confront chaos with the flame of awareness
we glimpse the world through fractured light
history repeats uncertainty, our fragile hands

who seeks to redeem the silence of wounds

In 1972, my Deda co-built a summit in Lovćen, Montenegro, the mountain that inspired Montenegro’s very name, meaning black mountain.
It was here, even before my father was born, that he injured his leg - and for long as I can remember, Deda walked with a charming limp.
There are many family stories I do not know: some locked away because they are painful, others I never thought to ask. And though Deda is no longer here, I am learning -
yes, there is still time
  to listen,
     to honor.