‘Like a graceful
yet mighty arrow
I saw you
shooting through the town
with the name “Adventure”
upon you.
I saw your coat fluttering
with wind’s madness,
irises of deeper colour
than the darkest tree’s bark,
nose drugged with the scent
of Poetry transcripted
and bare feet carrying with themselves
the heraldry of freedom
and a better world.
With books from faraway lands,
of wonders,
as a shield on your chest
from all that’s choked,
ideas unattainable to the Black Pit, thoughts
and dreams piercing
the surroundings’ façade
and the Village whirling into blur
from the speed of yours,
every time you’re the most beautiful feature
among the trash bins we live in.
Couldn’t take my eyes
and thoughts of you…’
Pero nadie se da cuenta,
nadie lo escupe por los dientes.
Ahogados por el tiempo
no me ven/sienten fluyendo entre ellos,
no ven la Esperanza
por debajo de sus parpados.
Como magia o viento vuelo,
espero hasta que alguien
me capture
con esta atención
en un jarrón
y me susurre
un amor así
como arriba.

I walked in rain today.
As a trooper I came,
on my own,
as the rain’s body I,
in the forest on the road back,
left.
Rain put Home on my lips,
head
and lungs
through chills of tundra in them,
blurring of the vessel
by streams of constancy
on my visage.
So close to the most righteous place of me,
of appurtenance,
I almost came into ragged breaths,
oxygen not sufficing for Heart.
Weren’t it for the body
I had to take care of
and still don’t know
how to leave unattended,
I would have begged all that water of crystal,
turning all the world into shiny blurs,
to take me with itself for a joyride
and don’t return to this land soon.

Arm trembling no longer holding up.
Spasms.
Pain.
Feverish commotion moved unsatedly. Longing already before their departure from the knowledge of it to come.
Anguish in sorrow of sobbing
and self-quenching.
Two hearts’ Life has been made, disgustingly ripped away
and then at all costs retrieved
through the cold,
shame
and flame of ashes.
A chain memory
gaining its voice,
shaping into separate mind
and place.
I’m in torenness.
‘ve been through a lifetime and act,
never allowed to come back again
to the same (whirl of trepidations
and convulsions).
I tamed yet another fox
and have to deal with the tears
of the ends.
Tear away someone else’s presence
from me
and so shall be no difference.
I’m in hurt as in loss.
Losing a precious to me
foreign presence
will feel even greater
or have I just lost one,
with a piece of myself
alongside?
The binding isn’t locking away
one’s memory for a story,
it is giving them a person
called “Story”
and stealing their porcelain pieces
with its charm and frazzleness.
That’s why I account Literature
into sacralities
of my astrality
and perfect chosen arts of being.
Their non-verbal is
my most cherished music there is
as in Phronemophilia
or feelings,
a form of incalescence and confession made between a pair of words,
plucking the perfect chord
of comprehension
and Heart’s painfully sweet thrillance
and, between the verses,
speaking the ideal maternal language
not yet known to Mind.
As a Book contains all millions
of little aspects of moments,
words,
flesh,
tiny traits,
demeanour,
beginnings
and endings
and middles,
as it throws a wave after wave
of conundrums
of alchemy of emotions,
of all the unnameable things
of acting/being/breathing/affecting…
it is a Person.
One of many supposedly
not ones in Me.
​Sorry, plushie dearies,
it will be the faux-Victorian tale
of volumes and affection
tucked close to my chest
tonight,
you rest next,
aside me.
Спокоиней ночи,
всё кто живет во мне и не.