The Only Hope
Poetry is a weapon, a shield against the storms. A protection against the tide of hatred, discrimination and injustice. But some people are ready to fight – for love, peace and hope.
Immortality
There is always someone we look for and need in times of despair, sadness, or just by our side when there is no one who would listen. When there is one who loves us unconditionally, no one to share the summer night or the autumn fall of leaves. There must be someone out there, promising eternal youth, happiness and immortality.
The Phone That Never Rang
It’s been one year since my grandmother passed away. This poem I dedicate to her and all the lessons she taught me. On my birthday, I waited for her to call me… she didn’t. She will never do it again.
Waking Up
My vision’s blurred, I cannot see the sky My hands are cuffed, cannot touch my heart My body and my soul are in a prison dark and damp. But…
The Blue Makes Me Feel Love
This is a poem I wrote when I was sitting on the beach and looking at the sea and its dark blue waters because of the falling darkness. It made me feel so cozy there, caressed by the breeze. I felt the way I used to feel when playing hide-and-seek at night – protected and safe. It made me feel loved and wanted.
Little Sparrow
The little sparrow represents the idea of a desired friend when we have none; a friend that can show us the world and all its beauties – be it the gentle summer breeze or the whisper of poplars at night.
Doom Is Not the End
Darkness can often crack even the sunniest day and the bluest sky. But this is not the end. It’s never been and it never will be. For a single warm human heart can melt away the mists and snows of doom.
Falling
It isn’t necessary to be afraid of hell after death. Each and every one of us has been there already. Darkness during the sunniest of July days. Sadness among twittering bird and playing kids in the dirt. We all have been there – falling and falling with nothing to grab and stop.
Looking Out the Window
The world often seems like one seen through a window; the colors fade and all the images are blurry and distant. And at that time, a train carrying passengers we know or we thought we knew pass by. Presents, futures and pasts roll on. And the whistle that was strong is slowly fading away… the train leaves us alone.
Buried
How many things can summer nights give us? The whistle of the dark. Its music and quiet dance. The stars and the silent sky. But the dead are always there, they come and go, following our footsteps. And when we turn to see them -there is nothing, only the faint echo of goodbye.
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