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Listen to the sound
of a butterfly
flying by

Feel the wind
from a bumblebee's buzzing

Clouds in the sky
The endless artwork
Three poems written by my beautiful wife.
To wait for the metro
is boring, tedious and cold.
It feels meaningless.
Or is it
a quiet moment
in the busy everyday life
where nothing is required of you
and you can just be?
Enjoy this pause.
To wait for the metro
is to live life now.
Written by my amazing wife.
Zywa 9h
I breathe calmly and

open myself to you, whom --


I do not know yet.
Collection "Without reserve"
I have always wanted to listen, perhaps, when I listened only under my mother's heart, like a pitifully crouching human fetus, to the oracles that came to me through the channels of the fearful outside world; mysterious holy words, or rather telling, wise words that I did not understand for a long time, because they were covered with the hieroglyphs of reason. Like the closed seven-padlocked gates that first fall on a person, then the painful childhood finally closes; our silent mouths are repeatedly closed by the gnashing of teeth, vain crying and sobbing for nothing, because things have not changed.

In their hearts and souls, shackles and chains are stretched that cannot be cut; The doubting past asks them eternally recurring questions, like a fragment of an indelible memory that has happened, and their requests, whether they bypass the fence or just jump over it, because they regularly put their well-considered answers in the balance pans. From the challenging coincidences - fear - can there never be a completed Fate?!

Because the passage of Time is still unnoticed, silent; the fear of adulthood, adulthood, still lurks secretly in the hearts of most of us; among new paths that have become aimless, it is increasingly difficult to find the one that can mean everything to be able to move on and prosper.

Because a person is often tempted and suffocated by futile waiting. It would be good to redeem the colony of soullessness, so that even those who constantly think of themselves as a pitiful, petty little nobodies can still hope!
Arii 10h
Sun beating down
the tide comes around
with the gusts of
wind—adrenaline

rushes by as the sea
hushes the rustle of the trees
and the blinding rays of gold
lining the clouds above

Like a tear in the blue
And the light shining through
The comfortable blanket
the tangled net

That is a peaceful day
Coming to an end.
"Who are you?" life asked me.
"A fighter," I answered.
"Who are you?" life asked me.
"A kind soul," I answered.
"Who are you?" life asked me.
"A child of God," I replied.
Life no longer asks me this question,
because I have finally found the only answer that I shall ever need.
I no longer awaken in the stillness of night, with a question lingering on my lips.  

-Rhia Clay
Ma'ya 18h
In the wet forest,
A carcass cradled by moss.
Life feeds on its loss.
Roots drink memory,
Silence thick as fallen leaves,
Time softens the bone.
It begins in quiet pain — a whisper in place of screams,
not because the world is silent,
but because there's nothing left worth hearing.
The emptiness feels like it has shape now,
like silence that bites when no one watches.

Still, the world expects a smile.
You sit there, pretending you're whole,
while your own voice sinks under the weight of
everything that used to matter.
Growing weary on the road,
respite seemingly out of grasp, wild
eyes cast their silver-yellow sullen

warning to the ground below as we crane
our twisted necks up: a meager offering
to the ones who walked the path before

Horned owl, languid head turning, collects
our astonished gasps like cold gleaming
rubies once tossed into a ravine or river —

nearby, the fog rolls in: curious bystander
ever intent on pulling the heavy curtain aside
to devour the last tasty morsels in the thrill

of a bygone moment — reckless and ripe
with the bloodstains of youth, the hunger
departing and returning in an instant
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