Putin’s Frost

His shadow stretches—

A frost creeping over borders,

silent, calculated, unyielding.
Words like chess moves,

pawns sacrificed without remorse.

Peace, to him, is a frozen lake,

Surface smooth, depths treacherous.

He builds walls of ice,

while the world watches,

waiting for the thaw.
But frost cannot last forever—

even winter yields to spring.

What lies beneath the ice?

A reckoning, or just more silence?
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Zelensky’s Lighthouse

He stands in rubble,

A lighthouse in the storm,

his voice cracking under the weight of hope.


Hands that once held laughter 
now
build barricades from broken promises.

Peace, to him, is a fragile flame,

flickering in the wind of war.


He speaks of justice,

of memory etched into stone,

of a nation that refuses to kneel.

But even lighthouses crumble

under the weight of endless waves.


Can light outlast the storm?

Or will it again be swallowed by the dark?
-----------------------------------------------------------­
. Trump’s Golden Table


His shadow looms,

A dealmaker’s grin etched in gold,

words sharp, cutting through silence.
Peace, to him, is a transaction,

A handshake, a signature on paper.


But the table he sits at is scarred,

its legs shaky, its surface cracked.

He trades in promises,

but the currency of war is blood,

and no deal can wash it away.


Can gold buy peace?

Or is it just another mask

for the same old game?
--------------------------------------------
Making Peace
—— The Cost of Ceasefire


Thirty days of fragile hope, thirty nights of whispered prayers.

Will it hold? We do not know, the voices sigh, but in the silence,

Between the shells, we hear the echoes of desire,

the whispers, of peace. Three shadows collide—

frost, storm, and gold—each a reflection of power,

each a mirror of humanity’s flaws. Peace is not a deal,

but a fragile crystal, forged in pauses between breaths,
in the restructuring of sentences. Love is the reckoning—


A surrender to the collective,

A refusal to let desire

become a refuge from responsibility.

Peace is not the absence of war,

but the presence of a world remade—


A world where love is not a refuge,

but a reckoning.

Möbius vectors twist  
through quantum spin foam's flutter—  
chaos morphs to prime  

Sigma-algebra tides  
dissolve 0.5g wavefunctions  
in lunar gravity's bride  

Two Dirac algebras  
entangle event horizons—  
Rebar Riemann's line

——To Antoi Gaudi
“One that goes from Earth to eternity, to the highest.”


He was the genius architect in the first place

Using matter, pure and fine
He makes the life that he intends

But in arts pattern, and in science design
At the second place, he was a craftsman
where rigorous rectangles border
a dreaming perspective, where a stream
awakened, he created his life ideal


Then third, he was the naturalist,
Using all he has inspired, he stated
“The big book, always open and we
must strive to read” is that of nature
Least not last, fourthly, he was a guru
“the straight line belongs to men
the curved one to God ” Likewise
Movement meets stillness, a line meets a shout

He was always there in the history of Basilica
Architecture and Geometry
Art of fantasy and algebra wonders

Solo cello echoing in seine river.

He whispers: haven’t you forgotten

that poem I used to read it for you?

She replies: autumn leaves never forgot
Count on our days when we were happy lovers

Cello tears up to season changes
Melody shoot into memories
She penetrated the cello strings to collect
Autumn fall leaves and prays for him

Memories are fettered. Likewise
the autumn new falling leaves
Float through seafront sunrise.
(Orange-red, shine touches)

Solo cello echoing in seine river.
He whispers, she remains silence. 

Seductions of images pies high

Gushing from the mouths of moon lady
To ease her hair across the stars
She heard he was whispering under the sky
The only way to not be afraid black truth
Is to learn to face your white fears,

You're not afraid of the dark
You're only afraid of a lack of light,
Whenever it's a fear of falling,
When you say, you're scared of heights,

In the universe, full of illuminated particles
In the world, full of colours
In the room, full of lunar emotion

She still wanted to dance with you,
With his fingers on the black and white piano keys
Leaping and deep, cool murmur moon

What was the subject？”she asked.
“I scarcely know.
With Adam and Eve-que sais-je？

Was it a hymn to the beauty of the human form
Male and female, and the praise to nature, sublime, indifferent
Or maybe more naughty with lovely spirits, and cruel?
He extends his smile winkles and replies
It was strange and fantastic.
It was a vision of the beginnings of the world.
And the Garden of Eden that arrives to your dream often.

Yes, Beauty is the subject of my entire life,
She looked into his eyes and whispered: “especially with the painted trees”
I see about myself in every day, every season
the alligator pears, the lily plants, and whatever
with an awful sense of the infinity of space
and of the endlessness of time.

I am the subject of BEAUTY…

She sits at the balcony window,
watching an early summer bloomsome
The earth is like a mirror, she whispers to herself:

Close to You
A glance in the mirror
Within one step closer to the rose
On the face of the sun
a drop of snow.
Under the same cloud
sings a nightingale.
Close to you
not far at all
sea wide from the sky
Purple lily fall…

Attractions attach to attractions
Detachment meeting detachment.
What lives, lives on the ground
What drops, drops and dies without struggle.