he grew
in the shadow’s cradle
where light was a stranger
and silence spoke in thunder.

among the red flames,
he stood
a dark flame itself,
unyielding,
sharp as obsidian.

not softer,
not less
but forged
from the stillness
between storms.

his roots drank from broken earth,
his veins held stories
etched in crimson glass,
fractured but gleaming
a quiet war
etched beneath his skin.

they called him wild,
a thorn without a rose,
but he was more
a sentinel of shadows,
a keeper of scars,
a guardian of unseen battles.

he bled without sound,
he bore his fractures
like medals of fire
each shard a testament
to survival,
each wound a map
of the battles he won
without surrender.

he did not seek to belong,
only to endure,
to thrive
where others would break,
to bloom
like the black thorn
that thrives
in the night’s embrace.

she bloomed
in the hush of night
where the sun dared not reach
and the wind whispered secrets
no red petal could keep.

they called her strange
a shadow among flame—
but she stood, velvet and midnight,
thriving
where silence kissed her roots.

among the red,
she did not wilt—
she shimmered.
not in gold,
but in obsidian grace
wrapped in the perfume of grief
and galaxies.

she was not less.
only different.
a hymn of thorns,
a waltz of ache.

the roses around her
spoke in bright laughter
but she sang
in echoes—
in lullabies
dripping from glass edges
still stained
with the stories of those
who held her too tightly.

there was beauty
in her breaks—
shattered, yes,
but glinting with stardust
and crimson.

she had bled
where no one could see
and still
she stood.

not because she was untouched
but because she was unclaimed
by ruin.

she was not born to belong—
she was born
to remind the world
that even darkness
blooms.

be gentle with us
or don’t.
the stars still fall without permission.

but if you must touch us
touch slow.
for we are poets,
woven from breathless skies
and midnight trembles.

we feel too deeply,
like a violin played in a burning cathedral.
it is not a fault
only a fire
that never learned silence.

we do not fall in love,
we crash.
like galaxies meeting at full speed.
we love like we are dying,
we live like we are fading,
but in our minds
we fly barefoot across constellations.

our hearts
are black roses
growing among the red
soft to the gaze,
sharp to the soul.

you will not see it in our steps
or in the way we drink our tea.
but we are stained glass
already cracked
still catching the light.
and if you press too hard,
we will bleed beauty.

a poet is not always seen
sometimes just a smile in the corner
a sigh in the crowd.
we are everywhere,
soft and wild.

we tell stories
so the silence doesn’t win.
we wear masks
not to hide
but to protect the soft
from the cruel.

we notice the things you forget.
the chipped cup.
the tremble in your laugh.
the way sorrow dresses like strength.

and when we love
we love your entire world.
not just your name
but the way it sits in our lungs.
not just your eyes
but the way they flinch when the past whispers.

we adore the broken
shards glinting red
like stained mirrors
still daring to reflect stars.

we have kissed the devil
with trembling mouths,
left pieces of our soul
in places no light touched
and still returned.

we are fragile
yes
but not weak.
our hearts are ruins and gardens
at once.

so if you come close
come gently.

because when we hurt
we hurt in verses.
and when we fall
we don’t land.
we become.

so this is your only warning,
written in blood and ink:

be gentle with us.
or
watch the beauty bleed.

be gentle with us
please.
or don’t.
it is, after all,
your choice.

but know this

we, the poets,
are not built like the rest.
we are the black rose
among gardens of red
too rare,
too delicate,
too dangerous.

we feel with the whole sky.
we love like the sun
is seconds from setting.
we fall,
not softly
but all at once,
like shattered stars
scattering over wounds.

we live small
but think wide.
in our minds,
we are always flying
between memories
and make-believe,
between hurt
and hope.

don’t be deceived
by calm faces.
we wear masks
stitched from poems
and laughter
but behind them
we are velvet chaos,
quiet storms
with bleeding edges.

we, too,
have danced with devils
and kissed pain
like it was wine.
we return
from places
we cannot name
but we carry the fire
in our chests.

a poet could be anyone
walking beside you
a poet could be everyone
breaking silently

we collect fragments
glances,
murmurs,
empty chairs.
we see beauty
in undone hair,
in chipped teacups,
in rain that ruins plans.

and love
when we love,
we don’t stop at skin.
we fall into souls.
into scars.
into shadows.

and when we’re hurt,
we trust slower.
touch softer.
speak less.

so now you know
this heart,
it does not bruise
it blooms in pain.
this soul,
it does not break
it spills light
through its cracks.

so if you come near
and if you care
then please
be gentle with us.

The spirit of Iseult cries to the wintry fogs, “Will my Tristan come to me?”, the hazes part and a whispery being moves to take her hand, she recognizes her love in his spirit, she speaks to him “Here you are after the longest time, haven’t you been patient as well?” to which Tristan replies, “Waiting for my beloved is farther than time” they then iridescently sway with each other as the rose and bramble briar are undying for their love.

Rain is
The dance of intertwined souls,
Whispers of lovers beneath moonlight,
An eternal prayer of love and boundless giving.
Nature’s song in muted syllables,
A kiss of passion and beauty upon the earth.
The embryo of new life,
A promise of roses and tulips yet to bloom.
A liberation of the mind—from the chains of fear and stress.
A call to awakening,
A beginning with a rebirth of hope.
The essence of life—God’s sacred water.

Hussein Dekmak

The language of poetry
is so much more romantic
Let's talk to each other this way
Let's forget the world
and pretend that all that matters
is that we forever stay.

L.C.

Who does not know
that a rose is happiness
and seeing a rose is happiness

that passes?
You are the blushing happiness
that I watch

For whomever you
open your petals
it is also for me

Happiness wells up in me
I myself unfold
through you

If i could weave the words of love for you on a fabric, the unending stitching of your name will be fluent in the language of my heart's rose is lighted with the devotion of your glance that is ablaze, touch me closer now, oh brooding one of the night, for I am your moon with the healing light.

You can nuke,
or you can spare
a red, red rose.

How grand—
to rule by choice,
to roar with the claim
your vision is pure,
as clear
as morning dew.
Yet you harbour genocide
in Palestine - the innocent rose.

Have you forgotten?
The last titan’s
Rise and Fall?
It will repeat.
That’s no lie.

The nightingale’s ode
to the rose
isn’t always whole.

It knows—
some places
bear more thorns
than eyes can hold.

But like yesterday,
tomorrow again,
it will hum
for the rose.