stand still and wait
this rope
is going down

my sense of pleight
is crumbling
falling under

before my eyes
an inch away
from touch

like lightning ball
colapses
through the night

i come
so other had
a chance to leave

somewhere
where staying
will be their mirth.

For years, I was holding any thoughts of becoming a Literary Translator at bay, mainly, because as a writer, I did not want to do anything else but write. But life has its own ways with us and every time I was fortunate enough to stumble across an amazing book, I was shown over and over again the sad side of the exquisite world of writing.

Most of the things you write half of the world will never have a chance to know just because it will never be translated.

But today, when I am seriously taking on the Literary Translation Mission, I more and more discover pitfalls that I think might be the reasons why Book Translation, even to the present day, stays a blurry spot in the world of Literature.

How can it be otherwise, you can say, considering how t...

remind me
how quiet beats the heart
once the love is dead?

how cold
all the hands in the world
suddenly feel

how senseless is
morning
and sinking in nights

how strange seems
the Sun
showing up 
through the clouds 
in the skies?

i cannot know
ahead

when turning
by mistake

away from
dreams

and towards
tears

sliding
on the ice of grieves

for all
that's lost

and all
that's gone

i hold a candle
prepeared to burn

there must be something
we dont know

till we ourselves 
are lost and gone.

may i tell you the thing
that never gets better
no matter how many times
you agree to repeat

no one is meant to walk
with a scorching feather
left in the crown of 
half-broken wing

ground can be heavy
holding you tighter
but soaring above
you can better live.

don't give me hope
for the days
that yet to come

stay with me
on the day
that is here

howling through night
holding so tight
even knowing
tomorrow won't come

more likely
today is all
we were ever destined to have.

you mean to me
what thunder means to ocean

when life on the wave
crushed against ridgy cliff

i try to hold back
my emotions

but there are days
i am chocking

on cold splashes from them.

it feels like home
to suffer

tearing myself
bit after bit

no need
for judging

masochism is
my kink.

there is magic in fog
and darkness
in all that is white

but

there is no warmth
in cold
dont you even dare
to search for that

i know it 
because
i've faced closed doors
too many times
and as a big girl
i had to swear off
to ever come back.

all the sweet
wonderful
sunny
things
are sinister

to the mind
that
sees them
through the curtain
of tears

bitter
taste
of its lips
sowing
seeds
of never ending night

death
makes
us fight
for a suspicious
peace

ironically
it only
exists
in mind.

Writers write, right?!

But what about other things, we, writers, have to deal with daily. Starting with a very primitive task as to find in the load of these mundane responsibilities time to actually sit and spend an hour in a blissful solitude, writing. What about brainstorming, plotting, figuring out ways through dead corners of story? What about sculpting characters from inside and outside, getting the right faces that will come alive on the pages later? What about getting acquainted with them? I can keep on and on for ages, talking about all the tiny details that come along with this pretty simple word as writing. And no one even considers writing, besides the ones who at least once tried to write, even serious.

Every time I say that I am a writer, which I don&rs...

who is next?
this heart is such a mess

but i keep sacred place
for hosting someone special

who does not walk this earth
but knows 
how to walk through storms

i throw
like a fevered child in tantrum

decpite all common sense
there is

in hardly ordered world.

this rain
in my heart
is more of a honey water

dripping
this flesh of my insides
like a flood
of celestial event

pure
and
normal

i know how dive
without protecting
mask

and yet

i go
half way
to the bottom.