Tell me, voice,
How much time have you spent
touching heads and hearts?
Demanding to shape new worlds,
giving hope through despair?

This is a community of Catchers Dreamers,
growing as they look out of their windows.
They glue a torn truth,
completing and filling in new meanings
and symbols to push away
cruel and illogical realities,
political performances.

Today, it’s so difficult to write poems
in the empty spaces,
when money assigns values
to be or not to be.

Opening the little *****
with a metaphor, and pain,
they spin, reading and writing
silver threads are punching their hands
impossible to relieve this irreversible tension.

What a beautiful tone of
polyphonic orchestral poetic flow,
of thousands, millions of words,
serious and bitter losses,
coming closer and much closer
to a Common Human Denominator.

After the pain of the human body,
silence arrives,
not good, not bad,
just without noise,
without splendid glory,
filled with unfinished thoughts
of those who loved or were loved.

Crossing through an amorphous gate,
their material vessels vanish slowly
in the rotting smell,
inevitable deconstruction
in the same irreversible order.

The red liquid comes back
to the primordial elements,
to Earth, to Air, to Void,
everything and nothing.

We who are still breathing,
create new interpretations
to be more distant than close
to the elusive insight.

Clearing our space
we put various convictions
in our grief drawer, suffering,
looking for consolation—
against the final revelation.

The cosmic conscious dust
returns to the circle of life.
Does it matter what comes after?
Just stay now,
open your arms,
embrace a tender emptiness.

Divide and conquer, deride compassion.
Indulgent resentment exposes the actions.
Wolves dressed as lambs, lambs as wolves.
Nobody believes in good ideas.

Craft deceptive reasons behind the words of love.
Stuff your victims into the dark, cramped box.
Do your work quietly, with discipline.

When the red moon rises
the energy of broken breaths
strengthens your existence.
Illusory peace as a weary sigh.

You laugh
when they try to unmask your behavior
Whispering: just another pathetic attempt
of hysterical souls, not pragmatic solutions.

Different actors, new stages.
You’re always the same,
Irresistible.

There are those who
spark under lights,
ready for fame
and splendid glory.
Untouched by the weight
of what lies behind.

There are those
who don’t seek applause,
work their silent craft
in the back row,
hold up every story.

Quiet presence,
unnoticed encounters
in the long hallways—
heroes of background,
like the steady ticking of the clock.

They are the pillars of pyramids
built by self-proclaimed Pharaohs.

I’m a barbarian in a woman’s shape.
I stomp into discourse with heavy steps.
Driven by impulse, twisting like switchbacks.

There are so many narratives...
With one hand, I hold a megaphone to my mouth.
With the other hand, from my heart, from my head,
I pull out jagged digressions and awkward arguments.

If I could weave just one logical thread
to see a common perspective,
to stop interpreting…

I would stand tall
on the pedestal of thorny incidents,
inept appointments, yet proud
that I would finally catch myself.

I know, I can only dream of
patiently knitting rushing words together.
I can’t stitch these threads into
a colored, beautiful patchwork,
that could give some warmth to the quandary,
or as a cover for chronic nostalgia.

Meanwhile,
within the conventions of social dreaming
I tilt my head from side to side
Asking myself with incredulity,
How is it possible that the voice
screaming inside me
sounds so weak and dull?

I store measured meanings
all definitions neatly arranged in drawers,
to calm the mind and heart.

I see with human eyes,  
carefully tracing the pulse of the planet.
In this apparent chaos, a strict order reigns.

In the cycles of the nightly day and daily night,
the same thoughts come to me like wistful friends,
longing to bridge micro and macro scales,
to merge into oneness.

Waiting in line for health,
I heard that time is relative.
What insightful words
shift meaning
in different contexts.

Trees, animals, human beings—
Each one perceives the flow of time
through a different lens…

If I were a butterfly
its three weeks would be my entire life.
How sad it is that
I cannot truly appreciate
a single second of a butterfly’s day.
Its rhythm moves beyond my awareness.

To people, Eternity is a never-ending story
of unrecognized fields of unknown space.
To ethereal, thoughtful giants
just a fleeting instant,
the blink of the universe
across the slender strait.

I can whisper or scream,
cry, laugh,
or remain silent for years,
but on a grander scale,
it will be nothing more than
a dainty breath of spring wind.

So please don’t be upset with me
that I can’t feel the same as you do now.
To you,
this is the endless painful abyss.
To me,
it’s just a passing memory
of deep night vanishing
into a new dawn of becoming.

When bad things happen, where are the people?
A man fights alone in silent despair,
while laughter and screaming echo through the void.
Indifferent voices suffocate the heavy air.

The window for change will open,
but they waste another chance in the cold.
In rooms of power, apathy keeps growing.
Psychedelic visions masquerade as the truth

They gamble and sell domains.
Those for whom ideas matter most
are led to the pyre, to oblivion.
Human systems are shifting.

So, it’s time for another soulless game
for the inevitable castling.  
As the tower and the king,
sharing the power, they dance wildly.

I cut through realities
like a slow-moving train,
seeing chess masters, victims,
silent witnesses
drowning in dense air.

From a dim-lit corner
I see those who run
breathing in danger.
Scattered shreds of information
stick to my head.

Precognition is
riddled with blurry spoilers.
Too vague to hold,
too sharp to ignore.
One girl was saved.
The boy? I sensed the loss
but not the name.
Bitter ineffability.
I draw words from an old well.

I wish my visions
were just a nightmare—
not incarnations
of a day yet to come or not.
The pictures wrench at my veins,
like dulled knives
playing a discordant melody.
Only a clear mind can save me.

I rebel in the silent scream,
clenching my hands
smiling slightly—
just enough
so others don’t see my fear.
The heavy drift of solitude
between reality and possibility…
Stubborn time bends,
refusing to be linear.
Am I still here…
or nothing but a vanishing sound?

Under my eyelids,
small and large, hidden feelings.
They are pinching, twisting,
healing me.

But when I open my eyes,
everything begins anew.
The train cuts through reality
flowing in a big hurry.
This is my private driving force.

The nod of ironic thoughts
bursts inside implicit words.
Welcome my smile-finally
you have appeared!
My missed special guest.

Now, everything is fine.
I only enjoy a comic mood.
It was too serious and heavy
So, I switch off my mode:
Complicating Even Simple
I choose to jump in a rumpled glory
between spicy, witty meanings.

Every time I recognize this feeling
in the tonality of deeply shifting sounds...
The words start to flow—
so naïve,
with illogical convictions
not to doubt.

I think I’m in trouble,
but I smile at this joyful,
passing state of thought.
Utopia is Utopia, meant not to exist—
It’s a controlled illusion, like a sedative.

I can go there and return
in a millisecond of a human thought.
Creating alternative worlds,
following the traces
of a tender yet aching life.
It keeps me, for a moment, feeling
so vast, deep, and complete.

Outside, I’m so distant from games.
Sometimes I don’t even remember
the language I used to speak.
Unfamiliar words come to me
like a flashback, like déjà vu...
Finally, to recognize where I exist—
in the present moment, in real
circumstances, assumptions.

This is not a bizarre illness
to try to understand…
My reflections inside are still safe.
I just hold every shattered human soul,
seeing them without judgment,
without control…
This is my quiet, ephemeral way
to set compassion free.

When we were leaving our place
I turned back for a moment,
I wanted to see it one last time.
The forest pulsing with dense life.

The first whisper
of Ambrorella’s blooming,
bitter fruit plucked
when we were hungry.

It was then I felt, for the last time
the false peace
of a sated animal.

I closed my eyes
and when I opened them
nothing was the same as before.

I remember,
You held my hand.
I was never just your rib,
I have always been your equal.

You didn’t resent me
for not wanting to live in illusion.
And so, our awareness began to grow.

I took the fruit
and I wasn’t the reason for our fall,
we just saw the world as it is.

I feel complete,
despite the pain that moved through my body
and still, it remains.
When all seems to die or to be born
I carry the warm living light.

Human beings
completely intricate—
distorted, subtle, direct, ironic,
melancholic, and other adjectives…
Not as clearly defined and innovative as their works.

In transcending the mirage,
longing for fulfillment,
made from the same clay,
the same flesh and bones.

They were born and still live,
sometimes, they pass away.

In the marketplace of lost illusions,
unwanted experiences—
transforming, shaping the messages
received from the Looking Glass World.
Seeking a new idea, like an exotic flavor—
to remember, to forget, to be angry,
to reflect, to love, to hate, to be loved.

And all of this for something so elusive,
to make life more tender.
Their fate was decided before
they could ever think...
And for what?

To laugh, to cry,
to be safe or stoic,
and to touch this strange structure.

Losing grip on reality,
without balance,
as they used to say.

I’m already on a dizzying poetic carousel,
with one foot in my normal life,
and one hand in virtual poetry.

The water was crystalline and cold
I danced with you in a crushing grip
and distant disconnection.

I held on to you—
in an illusory intimacy,
and deafening silence,
in the moments of fulfillment,
in the endless hours of isolation.

It was my first dance—
chosen with open eyes.
Youth tames wild rivers,
but the swirling depths take away
strength, naivety,
and wonder.

I persisted in stubbornness for years,
suspended between the worlds—
like a stone swallowed by a waterfall
at first, looking into an icy void
then into the warm sun,
convincing myself
I could heal something,
never having been whole.

Uncertain of what was
much closer to me—
my persistence
or my yearning
for what would never come to be.

Then the river tore me from the shore
carried me far away.

Did I ever have a choice?

The hardest thing
is to say goodbye to what
was never real.

This dance by the waterfall’s edge
will remain the only dance of my life.
I know I don’t want to be trapped
in the cold waters rushing toward
the abyss.

In your eyes, I see my own.
I waited so long
for your presence to become real.

In that crucial moment,
I felt something
changing my awareness,
and the soundless vessels were filled
with joyful abundance—
colored by
pain and sadness
that time goes so fast
in underrated moments.

Materializing all these silent dreams,
this one little girl who is growing,
watching me with defenseless trust
like nobody has before.
Gestures, smiles, brief anger, and talks—
I gather them in endless memory.

Sweet Melody, my Purpose
from the first breath,
you chose me,
and I felt beautifully complete.

I know that a real journey
begins through terra incognita
Every day is surprisingly different.
I accept with relief my passing.
I see your blooming wisdom
in thinking smiles, and authentic recognition.

My Daughter, I want to give  
as much love and acceptance as you need.
Taking your hand and letting you go
when you’re ready
to walk into life on your own—
watching the indigo sky.
Breathing freely, without anxiety.
After each fall, another resurrection comes.

I am here, I hope to stay a long while
to finally return to my last home,
without fear, with some tears.
Please, keep embracing this existence
with good and lost people around.
Be sure that I will smile
in your still-beating heart
giving you warmth.
.

I remember being here.
Hours trapped in the little orange grains of dust.
I recognize these voices, I know their names.
I saw these words replaying in slow motion.

Like in a perpetual motion machine
designed to heal and be healed.
I came to this place after many missed chances
finding my redemption, to see all over again.

Whenever I embrace more flashbacks
from past lives, from past sighs
settling on the broken glass like gentle steam
I feel so quietly completed.

I hide myself in invisible arms
loved many times before,
feeling that I am close to touching my infinity.
Why am I so sure this is the right path?

When I open the boxes of hidden riddles
with keys given by the ethereal glimpses
I know that I return now to the golden core,
to the beginning of everything.

It’s hard to tell myself,
that I'm nothing more than
a collection of possibilities.

I judge myself for my feelings,
I restrict my attitude to formality,
to avoid being hurt.

When I think that I am above,
comprehensible, intellectual…
I feel immersed in cold waters,
floating on the surface of my thoughts.

I accept and reject what the world offers me.
I express concepts to peel off
a layer of myself,
until reaching the black core.

I’m just afraid to swim on my back
not to sink into the soft mud.
My muscles are numbing under gravity.

I don’t want to return to my mental cage.
Hide again? Pretend?
Yes, I think I’m closer to myself
than I could have imagined.

My kingdom is built with
words, signs, powerful speeches,
sinister sentences, unspoken spells.

When you utter the first word,
you trace or carve a symbol in the air,
you are mine and mine alone.

Rationalizing, defending, and denying—
You detach, wrapping in theories
convincing yourself
that you possess a unique power.

You tear up your contracts,
scribbling dissonant manifestos.
You bite into my subtle meanings,
shouting at me in frustration.

I am the one who is—
the Realm of Ever-Shifting Elements.

When you return to me exposed,
opaque to others,
I am safe and dangerous—
I am your freedom
within endless captivity.

Loved or needed—needed or loved?
Does it still deserve to be a question?
This doubt will never be erased
from the human language.
It burns from inside
reducing plans to ash.

Do they seek to heal their broken thoughts,
or do they want to stay in hidden safety?

It’s unclear how to love all the sketches
made by routines, invisible seconds,
trivial matters
picked out from life
like slimy red, blue, and golden fish,
slipping through cold, wet fingers.

Existence as a heap of doubts
punched by blinding moments
bringing elusive clarity
that dims and flares again and again.
Needed or loved.
Loved by need,
an unbreakable union
without a sigh,
without rhythm
as a sharp dissonance.

Her soul was torn apart
into a dozen shreds.
How would she sew it up?
Such pieces couldn’t be stitched together again.
And it was such a beautiful, pastel-colored dress.
There was everything in her—
The desire to create,
First love,
and everything that could yet happen.
Only trembling hands,  
emptiness, fear, dry throat
and astonishment
that what had just happened
was merely a distant hour.
She wanted to return to her mother,
but she already knew the end
was coming on that frosty morning.
That girl would never come back to herself.

Oh, my dearest Egooooo!
When you can’t squeeze through the door,
so immense and entitled,
I tell myself,
“That’s enough!”
No more confetti and fireworks!
Haunting me over a lost chance.

The Magnificence of Doubt—
what if I were…
Soundless compliments
only to be pinched and ignored later.

From now on,
I celebrate my mediocre greatness
with a crown of fool’s gold on my head…
yet throne-less.

Some falls, invisible success,
and unfulfilled hopes,
which, surprisingly,
made me stronger.

Oh, the Irony of fate!
All these sleepless nights
for this Wisdom?!

It isn’t easy to walk, gravity weighs.
The biosuits lock the mind
in a narrow space.

An interpretive blow is crucial:
Does being on the other side of the mirror
truly want it, or only think it does?

A thumb drives into the right temple.
The heart pumps hectoliters of warm liquid.
Colours, sounds, tensions in the eternal swirl.

Delay in processing—eighty milliseconds
it isn’t a flaw.
It takes that long for all the cogs to turn.

Everything I do now is already in the past.
Decisions made long ago spit me out
into this reality with some name.

I am the last, but not least,
in the collective dream and blink of time.

Minds sway like golden grain, ready to be cut.
I can stand up or lie on the ground.

I walk—
toward the next stumble,
the next wound, and maybe healing.

Insights glow like yellow lanterns,
giving me some light.

No justification, no understanding.
My self-awareness is not a cozy couch.

One day,
I will stop existing, and I accept that.
I’m just afraid to leave those who still love me.

When the eye fails to recognize colors,
and the ear ceases to catch sounds,
when the mind doesn’t weave words
into something coherent,
and the body, shrunken,
no longer flinches to escape fear.

Then, my life, let me sit in a cozy chair,
wrapped in warm light,
and once again,
let me dive deep into the idealized past.

I will return without regret
to those faces, voices, and places.
I will wait, sitting in my pain,
calmly.

This departure will take a long while,
before I stamp my one-way ticket,
and everything becomes simple,
unconditional.

One day,
the stream of my consciousness
will dissolve into nothingness.

Then, my soul, let me—
in a gentler version than it was in reality—
settle discreetly and painlessly
in the memories of those dear to me.

I want to be nothing more
than a gentle touch of endless,
patient love.
A quiet presence,
a whisper of boundless solace.

For a moment,
I dive into juicy greenness.
The wind blows the leaves outside.
Today, the air is colder
than it was a few days ago,
when the warmth of the sun was so gentle.

I’m sitting, watching the faces of the youth.
They take their first exam,
a threshold to unknown adulthood.
Under the rules,
imposed by the faceless authorities,
which are as tight as windowless hallways.

I don’t envy them for being young.
I observe them with tender affection.
I pray silently for them
that the world:
won’t laugh at their dreams
won’t hurt their first love
won’t mock their faith

Their belief
they can change every despotic system.
They rise like green promises
of a better future.

Gaia

I remember the warm autumn's bare soil,
the aftermath of the harvest.

The setting sun touched my shape, and
I pressed my ear to the ground.

My heart was beating so fast.
The Earth’s rhythms were so gentle and calming.

The warmth and relaxing grounding
whispered a subtle narration that I can’t recall.

The wind sang the future, and I, lying on the earth,
I listened to the past, closed in the dust of past generations.

How comforting is this echo of my childhood
It gave me strength and conviction.

I took the right path with the sun, wind, and soil.
The freedom of my narration.

Kindness without a hidden agenda
Intelligence without *******
Authenticity without promotion
It sounds like sabotage these days
Or a new form of emotional cyberattack.

Somebody knocked at his window.
It was a dull, haunting sound.

Black tar filled a fearful, splintered mirror.
Something invisible touched his scruff.

That was a day, but the light faded into the night.
A cacophony of whispers shrouds his fearful heart.

It was so good, it was all right, as a sweet lullaby…
Who let a black Tesseract of doubt into his mind?

Exposed to both sides of black-and-white magicians,
playing their deceptive songs, their juggling tricks.

The human weeps for what could have been—
for devouring hunger, unfinished great plans…

Let him complete his painful catharsis,
let salty tears touch these deep wounds.

But when the next day comes,
tell him there are many more lost out there…

You know the truth: hell is hiding
in the black Tesseract of our heads and hearts…

Every day, I open my reality:
I wake up.
I feel.
I choose.
I decide—
knowing so many others
are crying behind the scenes,
and their trembling is raw.

Pain isn’t consolation—
it reinforces the structure of fragility
when the towers are crumbling.

At the core, we return,
squeezing black-and-white struggles
into our veins, into our memories.

To the only home
we never left
our own body.
The first and the last.