I want to listen to the playlist I used to play before, when I would carelessly throw thousands of music tracks into love, connecting with another world, traveling through it, finding the people I had lost, and telling them what I couldn’t say back then.

I would reread Mauriac, Hesse, and every book I’ve ever read.

I would relive those feelings, the initial emotions when I first discovered Francesca Woodman’s photography.

I would go back to that café I used to frequent, where I would sink into sadness, have something to drink—even though I neither drank nor smoked back then.

I would find a small dimension for myself, just as I wanted, to escape sorrow. I would shelter myself there for a few years and return with a clear mind—free.

Do not resemble another
For autumn won’t touch them the way it touches you.
Your taste receptors will never be the same.
Your dreams are not alike.
You won’t understand the same book in the same way.
Do not say you are the same,
Even if you are twins.
The déjà vu that grasps you for a moment
Detaches you from reality—
You are not another, not in another time,
You are one individual
In the present dimension.
You are not other.
Let us create catharsis for ourselves,
For we seldom feel it from others.

Newton was the name of the garden where I sat,
My knees were tired,
My hands rested on my tired knees.
After much walking, I wandered into this quiet garden.
I can think of nothing but fatigue,
With two kilometers left to reach home.
A breeze blows,
I almost want to lie beneath the trees and sleep,
Even if an unholy dream comes to me,
I probably can’t risk sleeping here,
I simply don’t want to lose my credit card again.
I count and feel every step that leads me home,
Fatigue turns us into people
Stuck in crisis, in dead ends.

I have buried my love again,
I dug it out from the earth,
I said, "God, I still love you!"
I hugged the cold wall,
I wanted to feel something.
Often, I betray myself,
Our problems vary in their weight.
You turned into a sharp spasmodic pain.
Maybe Aphrodite would have understood me!
Love is beauty, most people say,
But it doesn’t concern me, nor my love,
For I live in darkness,
I glorify the feelings of affection.

Words settled in the brain,
Left behind by others,
Remind us of them.
We often wish to erase them forever.
In moments of crisis,
The dirtiest and most tainted words come to mind,
While those drowning grasp onto good words.
Words are insignificant to some, they say,
Yet they still leave red lines on our white ribbons.

I think I'll go somewhere,
In Alaska's cold I'll settle alone.

I pondered on the fallen angel.

No matter how dark my thoughts are on the essence of the universe,
I love the piercing Cold so much.

Even God grows evil.

I pondered on the fallen angel.

Poetry is not prose!

I'll settle in Alaska.
Black branches, Naked branches.

With anarchist behaviors We turn our backs on all the proud ones -
I thought about virtue, forgiveness -
But no, Even God grows evil.
I love winter, Black branches.

Poetry is not prose!

We choose the dusty street  
Because we want to notice  
The specks of dust sparkling in the sun.  
We wish to rest  
Leaning against cold, Gothic walls,  
Yearning to enter closed houses.  
Often, beautiful words are not amazing—  
Especially when we witness tragedy.  
Who wrote our poems?  
With wondrous words, though they do not resemble us.  
We protect trees from pests with paint, yet no one protects us.  
The wooden planks of deceit are finely planed,  
Yet we hear the deafening drumbeat—  
While the quiet serenity of the lyre reaches us.  
When we burn dried grass on the bonfire,  
We find comfort in the smell of the charred grass.

When we lie, our hands sweat, and we can't dry them until we touch someone else.

Red roses planted in a filthy ravine,
For the bliss of passersby.
Brought there by witches –
Visually stunning,
Left at the mercy of rain,
Blooming red.
The wise will say it is in honor of the mortals –
While the lowly will glance with irony,
Their eyes deceitful.
Just as Venus embodies perfect beauty,
Red creations have emerged in this filthy place,
Tender roses, the ravine’s charm.

I place my slippers by the bed,
Hoping I’ll wake up to find them where I left them,
I do this over and over, feeling the same.

Habits, feelings are ours—
Our manners when we open a beer can or simply glance at something, someone.
No one can change our behaviors,
Though we might imitate another's manner for a while,
Like the weather, never repeated,
We can't become someone else.

An actor brought a book character to life,
But in my mind, they remained different.

As the years pass, we betray our habits,
Just as our altered bodies betray us,
Yet mannerism still dwells within us.