my father was a man of picture
his brooding stare
sharpened by the cold

he wore the stones
deepened in the fiction
of his shortly cutted soul

hi...

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...

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...

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...

i cannot know
ahead

when turning
by mistake

away from
dreams

and towards
tears

sliding
on the ice of grieves

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 ...

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
e...

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 day...

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 ...

all the sweet
wonderful
sunny
things
are sinister

to the mind
that
sees them
through the curtain
of tears bitter
taste ...

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...

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 w...