Osiem metrów wysokości.
Pośrodku szczelina.
Rzeźba dziecka z betonu
obok kontury ciała i pustka
po bezbronnej istocie,
której już nie ma.

Szorstka struktura szarości
rani delikatną skórę.
Głód. Choroby. Samotność.
Świat zapomina o tych,
co nie krzyczą głośno—
o tym co najbardziej boli:
o miażdżonej niewinności,
i olbrzymach pilnujących
orszak przestraszonych wielkich oczu
w małych, wychudzonych ciałach.

Pamięć nie jest wygodna.
Ona fizycznie boli.
Uparte rany nie goją się.
Było.
Jest.
Wije się w sąsiednich otchłaniach Tartaru.

Aksjomat przyjęty przez aklamację:
„Tak ma być!”

Cisza.

Na scenę wychodzi syn ocalałego.
Łamiącym się głosem szepcze:
Tata przeszedł piekło, ale kochał nas.
Przeżył, napisał pamiętniki.
Dał świadectwo.
Rozumiał ten wykolejony świat.


BROKEN HEARTS

Eight meters high.
A crevice in the center.

A concrete sculpture of a child
and the deep void.
Once there was another child,
now gone without a trace…

The rough grey texture
hurts fragile skin.
Hunger. Disease. Loneliness.

The world forgets
those who do not scream
and what hurts the most:
crushed innocence
guarded by the giants
watching the procession
of terrified wide eyes
in small, gaunt bodies.

Memory is not a peaceful place,
it brings physical pain.
It gnaws from underneath.

Stubborn,
festering wounds,
they refuse to heal.

It was.
It is.
It will happen again
by axiom,
accepted without question.

That is how it must be.

Like a venomous snake
slithering near the lands of Tartarus.
Endless sacrifice, leaden silence.

And then, the son of the survivor takes the stage.
He speaks in a whisper:

My Father went through hell, but he loved us.
He wrote it down—
a testimony of a derailed world.

He knew what it meant to be human
when it hurt.

He survived to love and to be loved.

Do you ever just ponder
And wonder of life
The splender of nature
Of wildlife?

I never begged for anyone to stay—
not once, not in silence, not in stray
glances that lingered longer than pride
would ever let me justify.

But that night,
the stars felt too loud
and the world too hollow.

Every inch of me—
bone, breath, memory—
itched like a wound that knew
its healer was walking away.
Even the atoms trembled,
each particle aching
to betray my mouth
and scream
“Please…”

I wish I lacked empathy.
I don’t want to feel.
I don’t want to see signs.
I don’t want to be real.

One minute, I’m fine—
then my soul explodes in my chest.
I wish I didn’t see that.
But I did. And now, no rest.

I wish I could shrug,
say “that’s not my concern,”
but every flicker of pain
Causes my stomach to hurt.

I notice the silence,
the shift in your tone—
there's nothing in your voice
It's all I think about alone.

This is why I'm standoffish and stick to just me
There's no ache in loneliness
At least not the kind that stings

Maybe I'll make friends but that feels like betrayal
These self imposed rules- a safe fortress failure

I wish I didn’t feel
At least not to this extent
My day was going so good
But I ruined it again

I sit with stars no one can see,
Dreaming roads that set minds free.
In halls of noise, I speak so low,
But in my heart, whole forests grow.

They say "Be still, Stay in your place",
But I see planets, time and space.
They don't see how I light the dark-
A quiet kid with a silent spark.

No one listens, No one stays,
Yet I keep building in my ways.
With every 'no', I write my song,
Because in dreams, I do belong.

One day they'll see the things I made,
The lights I sparked, the roads I paved.
And though today I stand alone,
My spark is small- but fully grown.