I wish to retreat,
perhaps to a cabin in the woods,
or, like Iris Murdoch’s hero,
to settle near the sea…

It has been so long
since I have felt true solitude.
I long for that silence
that only it can bring
to sit in stillness
and listen to my own thoughts,
to cook only for myself
and savor each single bite,
untouched by the street’s noise
that might disturb
my quiet comfort.

Somewhere far away, deep in the forest,
animals dwell
some hide from predators,
yet more dangerous still
is the rifle of a hungry hunter.

He returns home with prey,
switches his plasma TV
to the Discovery Channel,
slices the animal’s flesh
to feed himself.

He sets the table,
eats,
and at last,
with half-closed, weary eyes,
lights a cigarette
the final act,
before locking the door
and collapsing into sleep.

Fly away black bird, perhaps you'll encounter a carcass or someone kind will offer it to you.

You'll hide in the dry bushes with food, Your black feathers will flutter in the wind, satisfied and full, your body will heavily descend again to the ground.

If they gifted you an artificial flower,
it doesn’t mean they don’t love you,
it just means I will stay with you forever,
thinks the lover…

It carries the scent of pure elixir,
and if you don’t burn it,
you cannot silence the “me” inside them.

Red red red,
artificial artificial artificial,
roses roses roses,
in a white marble vase,
until nausea
artificial…

Tall cliffs covered with tiny yellow flowers,
a sky painted violet,
and the scorching sun of summer.
We walk to the spring to drink fresh water.

Teenagers are swimming in the little river,
the shade of the trees cools the water even more.
How delightful it is to be here
as if you are filled with love.

A gentle breeze touches your faded hair,
making you forget all sorrows,
even the most painful ones.

Your child walks ahead already grown
You still see the cliffs, along whose edge you both follow the path.

What could be a better feeling than the need to eat, though everything is tasteless until you try blueberry and berry ice cream at the girl’s house; you think maybe you won’t leave and instead sit on her couch every day, eating this wonder slowly…

On this leather couch you feel such comfort that you want to stay; you want to tell the girl, “You must be a witch,” and at the same time take her onto your lap so you do; the touch of her body scares you at first until you feel her soft breast in your hand, “You surprised me,” you think.

You might believe in Shakespeare’s deadly love, you might fall in love with this long-haired creature. You still taste that berry flavor in your mouth, and after leaving the house you buy an unhealthy Red Bull; you remember your grandfather saying it’s better to drink wine with him, and you laugh recalling how she had stumbled into the bathtub naked and drunk…

Maybe you could feel love, too.

can you be written as Byron?
To travel in time and revive his thoughts,
maybe you too are great like him,
oh Lord Byron,
your tempestuous and raging mind,
like a rose planted in the ravines,
thorny and unreachable.