Under my fingers, you shiver
Your fever hasn't subsided

It's been long hours you've lain ill
I am blaming the arrow.
Blaming the war.
Blaming you.

But I have no heart to say all of these,
As I dip a cloth to wipe your skin..
And wish to God that you will be alright..

Your arms..
Tested and strong
Yet covered with scars and fresh wounds..

The further I trace over your skin,
The heavier my breath becomes

My handsome liege..
A weak sigh I never want to let out in your presence, escapes me..

I turned my eyes to our pavilion entrance,
The sun has yet to descend to horizon,
and still the golden ray drapes over us all.

The air is filled with every taste of agitation and suspicious wondering eyes..

Our men have not uttered any words
since they brought you back.
Nor dared to ask,
And I dared not to tell

"It wouldn't have happened had you listened,"
Another protest chimes in my mind

"My lady," a weary, coarse whisper I am familiar with

My heart drops,
My tears rushing its way out..

Relief washes over me.

I keep turning back through the pages of my life's codex; memories, shadows of the past, even the persistent, tenacious deep layer, the poor pimples of annual rings still hint at a recurring ominous omen for my otherwise shipwrecked Robinson Crusoe life. The weight of crystal memories almost crushes me, even though I was no more sinful, foolish, or wasteful than the rest - a kind face, a good deal of good mood, unexpectedly comes to mind, because I often gain more truth from the reflections of talkative faces than from the cavernous depths of soiled, muddied souls.

In petrified depths, along with adverse trials, a few more eloquent sermons bubble up: "My dear friend! Why is this useless, worn-out life of yours not good for you?! It's true! Your bills and utilities are still in order, and even though you haven't bought yourself a new jacket, Lewis jeans, or elegant Italian leatherette shoes in ten or so years, you can still wait a long time for that sparkling toothpaste commercial smile.

Why do you behave like an orphaned light flickering in the darkness of the night, which deliberately prefers to hide its petty, selfish secrets and only glows from the inside?!" Your human attitude seems to last only for seconds, because at the same time you are attracted, but at the same time you are repelled by the sluggish, cynical indifference with massive awareness, the millennial principle of our time, since nothing changes, Existence can only seem more and more unbearable.

- A duel of spirits could not be easier, especially if the wise science of arguing is banned within radical frameworks by knowledgeable smart tonics, because they are truly terrified of the power of innovative creative thoughts and ideals. Your naive-childish, eternal Sisyphean worries and exploitability are now being played with by jerks and fools, while they splash pathetic, petty words at you halfway; be careful! It's not too late!

Don't Shed your viscerally restless life! Because you would like to reach there yourself in a worthy way, where joy and satisfaction await, and not the hustle and bustle of everyday robot work! And how good it would be there, arm in arm with your Beloved, to write the laws of the Universe in the sand!

We were just girls
Lili and I
when Dad brought her home,
a heartbeat wrapped in fur.
Mom sighed, already bracing for the chaos she swore she never wanted.

With every nudge of her nose,
Mom’s walls softened.
Even during the puppy messes, there was joy my mom won’t admit
but I saw it in the way she stroked Luli’s head
like she’d always belonged.

Luli was our first lesson
in what love should be:
patient, gentle, loyal,
comforting without condition.

Then I left.
Two years.
And I hoped the pictures lied that she wasn’t as thin,
that her eyes still sparkled, that her kidneys hadn’t turned against her tiny frame.

But when I saw her,
truth hit like a lump in my throat.
She was fragile, fading
but her spirit, unchanged.
She still wagged her tail
like I’d never left.
And in that moment,
I knew she remembered.
All of it.

Luli wasn’t just our first dog.
She was our quiet proof
that real love is soft,
and never needs to be loud to last.

Sometimes hope is cruel
because it made me believe
she’d look just like before.
And reality?
It reminded me I was right,
right to fear that, that was the last time
I’d ever hold her.

And I wonder
if she laid there, eyes dimming,
thinking of us
of Lili by her side, whispering comfort,
of Dad’s proud smile the day he brought her home,
of Mom’s hands that once hesitated,
but grew to cradle her like a secret she never meant to love.

And maybe…
maybe she waited for me, the one she hadn’t seen since summer
hoping I’d come through the door just once more,
so she could rest knowing we were whole again, just like before.

Their hate
Their envy
Their insecurities
They chase after you as if you’ve committed a crime
It feels illegal to be yourself
when they try to catch you every time
They see you free from the chains of insecurity, of envy, of hate
They see you live without the fear of others' judgment, what they create
Like a politician, they scheme to hide their mess and reveal yours
But your mess is already on the table, behind broken doors
You are a glass mirror, trying to show them what they want to see but
With arms shaped like hammers, they smash and they cut
Out your insecurities, hidden underneath layers of skin
And the audience watches, only half hoping you’ll win
But that audience, they are struggling too
They watch your undoing
with shivers of deja vu
Old scars burn as their blood once again rushes with shame
Because really
we are all the same
Everyone bears the weight of fear and hides scars from the past
But some lash out in hopes the high of relief will last

After all
The only reason they throw fists fueled by hate
Is so that their insecurities
their fear of judgment
Can stain someone else, with bruises they create
But we can’t pretend to be blind, shield our eyes from the truth
We are all victims of judgment, hate, and cruel truths
That pain grows inside us like we swallowed seeds of hate
And blossoms into buds
waiting for us to take the bait
Until we pick that flower and force it into another’s hand
So it spreads and it slithers until it covers every inch of this land
Yet these people aren’t entirely to blame, they’re victims too
Who swallowed the hate and let it break them in two
One half chases peace, running in vain
The other rages, embodying the pain

They said to us, let go of the past
But I can't recall that anyone ever asked
Because if you can say that
I don’t think you understand
That feeling stinging, like the back of someone’s hand
Then how do you move on, if you don’t let go of the weight
Become just like them or transform all the hate
Or maybe you can forgive but
you’ll never forget
Because how is it fair if they escape the regret
But we will not forget that they are victims too
Whose pains are shadowed by everything we have been through
There’s no way for them
to take back what they’ve done
But at least for now
They’ve put down the gun

A heart that beats for others deserves better than an empty, cold apartment. The broom of painted swallowtail eyelashes is a transparent exhibitionist curtain, where all essence is lost, because they let the echo drops of the soul be lost. Man no longer has great world-saving goals, only to finally reach a heart line identical with his split subconscious self. A beautiful supermodel-bomber is hardly noticeable, because the exaggerated body culture, the health mania, destroys and infects the levels of the Soul.

A skinned leopard fur coat - despite being an unaffordable luxury item - regularly exudes an unbearable stench; and while a manipulator is calculating with manipulative, deceitful methods, maybe he can have the biggest scam of the decade – average guys who are considered losers and suckers jump into the Danube as an internal consideration.

They are scattered around, as if their long-lost bohemian-dwelling eternal friends were mourning their second youth. A buzzing insect-circle dance – nowadays, this is all that the gigantic, principled treadmill of everyday life can be worth, because work never comes to the house voluntarily, that is the sole privilege of the big dogs and sharks; because everyone would rather look for the invisible, sure way out, while they can, hopes, stubborn illusions, foolish beliefs turn into frozen falls.

On the discarded, serviced street of Time, like occasional drunks, they stumble half-blindly one after another, the petty-murderous humiliations instilled over decades, the humility tolerated, the chasms towards which honesty and truth rush at once, since it may seem impossible to do anything with the Present!

Because now, not only the nights or the days are getting heavier and heavier, more pregnant – but the materialization that can be experienced viscerally in the world on the universal colonies of soullessness; the desire to trust, the naive-childish longing for hope – fearful – is no longer reminiscent of the whining child and his complicated adulthood. And yet, the great resistance, as a kind of disenfranchised, usurping rebellion, is only just beginning. Now, the so-called big-time usurers are just now having to sacrifice themselves on the altar of cheap, no-man's-land little paid lies.

If you get a hundred thousand as a gift, at least you'll give it back, even if it's a million and a half at the price of your pitiful head. You can still find a manageable expectation for anything with which the other can be easily influenced, and like a wax figure, you can still be pulled. A throwaway nothingness is left behind, scraped from the depths of a landfill or from the squalid filth of street corners, because – as we know – the afterlife is also increasingly vulnerable, and perhaps more vulnerable.

Every morning start is also a sure and lasting longing for a satisfied escape, that you would have to change even if you have been running away from yourself as a vulnerable shipwrecked Robinson Crusoe your entire life; you have often fallen into greater, more brutal pitfalls, like an angel whose wings were clipped. You could never take to heart the petty, petty life-and-death grip of cats and mice, because you have experienced the horrors of small, cruel amusements on your own skin every day!

Perhaps you have not yet thought about how much it weighs on your chest when you feel how and how the secret of your arbitrary weight changes before an imaginary tribunal. The wandering, opaque mass of yeses attracts you at the same time, but also weighs you down; the conscious saying no would be much more tempting. Because this current gutted, disemboweled Age, in which the individual as a creative individual has largely ceased to exist, is eating away your self-confidence to the core, with a wrinkled smile on a scattered corner of the mouth, because - as is well known - every defeat leads to misery, but never supports its victims.

The lack of the solid Nirvana-nothing would rather sweep away the rustling, melancholy limbs of Existence into nothingness; more than a million octopus claws of futility are grasping at you. Because the unknown, difficult-to-reconcile equations of emotions should be sorted out and solved, the power of calls and friendly gestures attracts even the naive-minded, because it comes from above downwards, the emptiness nicknamed permanent hangs all the way to the depths of the soul's cave.

The worst thing is that it is known: everything and everyone is overtaken from behind by the past, then by memory, until finally there may be no one and nothing left to which one once truly attached. And like a loose stone throw, the course of things falls a little every second like a whirling wedding of petals. - A sickening, nervous battle, a vow is heard: the smoldering-headed arrow of the Universe is questioning itself. As grace, mercy, redemption, it would cut through the harmony-silence in vain, like a double-edged sword that can only manipulate and manipulate with the selfish, greedy will from which it was taken.