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That night in my dream
I saw the table, sheets of paper,
pens scattered all around.

I sat down to write,
like many nights before.
I picked a pen and another,
but both ran out of ink.

The voices fell silent.
I sat alone in my room,
calm and surprisingly happy
watching the black sky
not as scary as before.

I thought of the sleepless hours,
spent chasing words until dawn,
afraid that something might go wrong
in a nebulous state of mind.

In the dim light of the lamp,
I raised a ladder
to my inner world.
That night,
I felt relief.
I told myself,
Why not?

If I couldn’t write I would rest—
without tension
without the nasty inner critic.

When my pens finally run dry,
It won’t be my unhappy end.
Just another phase.

Thank you, my Intuition,
for inspiration,
your soft, invisible voice
carried me to alternate worlds.
Challenging, yet meaningful.
Agnes de Lods Mar 25
So lucid,
so spiritual,
so warm,
and sometimes
screaming.

Joyful, humorous
caring for others,
and often fed up
with cruel meanings.

So nostalgic,
a few salty tears,
mingled self-irony.

Pulsating softly,
may these thoughts
last a little longer.
They want to live despite
the announced apocalypse.
Agnes de Lods Apr 24
Yes, no, I don’t know.
I have only this conviction.
Talking to myself,
something says:
Breathe, don’t look, just fly…

No, don’t go! Stay a while!
Just a second here
and there
it would be a couple of solar years!

Now, you’re not a fish,
You can’t dive into this seductive,
endless abyss. Watch out!

You are a little human
wanting to cross another line,
not to die!

Just one step,
don’t look down!
Your footing—
a necessity of evolution.

Brown buttons everywhere,
like micro decisions
denying free will.

Buzzing sounds from nowhere
imbue air and chords,
so many chords
without a clear solution.

What am I doing?
My assumptions collapse.
Another transformation?

Memory came back
as crumpled paper.
But now,
I have no questions.
I know who I am.
I knew it from the core of my bones.

My awareness
suspended on the tightrope,
it drags forward.

Everything that is born
is born with a piercing sound.
So, I accepted the invitation.
Agnes de Lods Jan 27
She lost thin hair
for worries.
The bones shrank
without stunning pain.
Body hunched
but still working.

Seeing lost angels
passing through,
dark labyrinths,
an alley of exiles.
No artifacts, no money
no fame…

So, why does she act
as if it belongs to her
all the tangy sweet world
in royal dominion?

She loves …
almost everyone
without any love.

Oh, this invisible,
subtle tenderness!
Too quiet to be spotted
by deafening loudness.
Agnes de Lods Feb 20
His fur catches twinkling light
spots motifs hypnotize.
He paces the cage, restless.
The black claw wants
to tear open raw flesh.
Pulsing dense warmth
flows in the heavy air.

To get closer—
just for a while,
to look into gold-red, cold eyes
To touch the mystery,
to ask what it feels
when it rips apart the skull
and slurps the fading beingness…
Is curiosity worth it?

Nature is no accident,
Nothing is left to mere chance.
Stare too long into his eyes,
the barriers come down…
Is that you, or is that I?
An ominous gaze is a gift
that unveils the fated future.

If they open the door
He reacts without control.
His instincts unerringly
detect unspoken warnings.
Run away,
Turn to stone,
Scream or Faint if you want.

The shrinking, narrow space
puts everyone to the test
in a world of large and small cages.
Agnes de Lods Apr 10
We’re getting on this streetcar
without our permission.
Deciding every single day,
not to get out, just to survive,
until the next stop, the next breath.

Let’s pretend to be naive,
when the absurdity of norms
pushes us to follow the one-way track.

Please, look around,
see through rose-colored glasses,
how beautiful it could be!
Everything would seem easier
and more tolerable.

In this magical place,
we once called wishful thinking,
all the stars spark at night,
the rainbow shines all day!

Why must we be so practical,
when stray pieces intertwine,
forming a cohesive and unique whole?

Passing silently, unnoticed,
in the city of unseen lines,
in the depth of our hearts,
we dream that this tale
could end happily.

We, all Passengers,
craving more space
spreading our wings,
we are trapped in small cages.

In the streetcar called
Bare Existence
until the last trip,
until the last call,
we wish only
to be unconditionally accepted.
Agnes de Lods May 13
An emotional wind,
just to clear the daily fields,
to ask a moment after,
with childish tenderness.

They have a soul
like an old building,
with a million windows,
and one locked door.

They are so different,
more than a straight line.
They save the world,
seeing, feeling, not less.

Not a doctoral degree,
no frame that fits.
Perhaps don’t read the words,
they think beyond two and one.

They burn the dinner,
tangled in their inner world.
Flickering light, voice—
A scratch of structure is too much.

States of agitation,
flow of information,
and the beautiful creatures,
make sense without logic.

They give to this dimension
more than they’ll ever know.
Paradox in the crowd,
unclassified,
a blessing for society,
yet invisible.
Agnes de Lods Feb 14
Palabras en prisa,
llamadas por auriculares
Haciendo la compra,
Recogiendo el aliento tras la coma
Convencidos de que la multitarea
Resuelve nuestros difíciles momentos
Esperamos los futuros ahorros
de los minutos perdidos.
Alertas, tiempo, cartas virtuales,
¿De hecho, quién tiene razón en esta muchedumbre?
¿Los que están gritando cada vez más fuerte o
los que siguen teniendo sus voces calladas?
Solo la Tierra parece mantener su tiempo,
Adagio, girando alrededor de sí misma.
Como si siempre fuera independiente.
Desde lejos tan tranquila, celeste y acogedora
Parece ser imperturbable.
El planeta elipsoidal
Dispuesto a ser habitado para siempre.
La traducción de mi poema "Pośpiech"
para mis Queridos Amigos hispanohablantes
Agnes de Lods May 28
Carrying my truth.
I stand by my views,
watching through
my weakening gaze.

After a raging storm,
making peace with myself,
I vanish into the air,
my convictions fold with me.

Without simple answers,
wearing the new lens,
I see another world:
not clearer,
not wiser,
not safer,

just slightly shifted.
Agnes de Lods Mar 14
Dear Universe,
I apologize for not reading
your messages before.
I just preferred to go
my own untraveled road.
You know me so well—

Youth, optimism
and stubbornness
were my strengths.
All these appearances
to decide for myself
with free will?
It was worth it.

Over the years,
I understood
that you are not my enemy.
You wished me to feel better,
and truly complete.
Now, I open your letters,
peacefully smiling,
without fear,
knowing I won’t find
false promises
or easy solutions.

You send me people,
situations, symbols, dreams,
and beautiful melodies,
carried by the solar wind—
that I take in surprising peace.
Even though,
sometimes it’s painful.
In this ceaseless, surprising journey,
it seems unthinkable
that you could ever flicker out.

You drift through thoughts,
piercing the event horizon,
touching the impossible,
deflecting off the wall.

You turn back along cosmic paths,
your photons comprehend
the nature of who we are—
a sum of chance and fate,
woven into living threads,
floating endlessly
in the tender night.
Agnes de Lods Jan 24
Every night,
I open a new door to a secret tale,
a flashback from the threshold.
I wish I had put everything on the right side,
but I can’t find the words to express this state of being.

Happiness is like an ephemeral sound,
trying to escape from tight shells,
squeezing thoughts into a small black hole.

I don’t see a linear existence.
I’m always between whispering dreams,
listening for a long time, a mermaid chant
patiently waiting for a joyful symbol,
a reward for the time absorbed.

Now I am tired, I need to sit down
on a stone of my decisions.
I hope to stay a while in my inert numbness,  
but I really want to be reborn into another story.

I wish to feel true reciprocity one day
without useless words or expectations
and after quietly complete
my last human transformation.
Come to me, human child.
I keep your dreams safe
from all your nightmares.

Don’t be afraid of monsters—
here, there is nothing more
than an immense air of relief.

When night falls,
the threshold of the void will open.

Your story,
scattered across countless pages,
millions of thoughts never unveiled.

Fly higher and higher—
to escape the weight of pain.

When the day awakens
you will not be the same.

So vulnerable,
adrift from the material world,
wrapped in heavy, metallic skin.

Please be kind to yourself.

Beyond time and space, sleep well,
suspended in the abyss that gives you strength.
Agnes de Lods May 14
Is this water still water
in the photo taken a moment ago,
or is it reflecting the sky
in a dark mirror of wishes,
drifting through the mind?

Do the thoughts wear the words?
Do they embrace stillness and truth?
There is no single pattern to interpret.
Alternative facts appear credible.

What was predictable, a sweet certainty,
became a distant mirage of memories,
touching softly reality and its interpretations,
sealed tightly in the crystal bottle,
sinking slowly into oblivion without regrets.

Canceled words are so infinite and quiet,
bringing a deep indigo relief,
inexpressible and so beautiful.
No doubts. No screams.
Just a peaceful self-reconciliation.
Agnes de Lods Jan 18
We trigger an avalanche of reactions,
without consciousness of faults made.

We tread on the thin ice of the lake.
Under us, everything drifts.

Inner voices
urge us, despite the cold.

Personal anxiety
the back of the head throbs.

We wear different states of existence:
Happiness, purgatory, and despair.

Living despite boundless doubts,
we are sculpting our metaphysic.
Agnes de Lods Apr 22
Give it a name.
Give it some shape.
Call it aloud,
and it will come here.

It gets inside.

Into our mind, into our dreams
To carve a new portal of old memories.

We think we’ve sealed it, but time flies into our skin.
Fractals of the multiverse scratch the surface of doubts.
Cataplasm doesn’t soothe our pain.

We are shaped like clay figurines of soft matter,
and so, so deeply fragile!

Drifting joyfully into illusion,
we are children from the far Northland.
Without light and warmth,
on a journey to the forgotten home.

Having only each other…
Seeing, touching, hearing, dreaming…
Closing our freedom in minutes,
we don’t watch the deep sky.

Right there, the rings of Saturn
spinning in their own beat
as our lives get faster.

They reflect our vanity with a soft gaze
until we cross the portal.
The ****** Self, Emotion, and Subjective Time
Exploring Interoception through the Contributions of A.D. (Bud) Craig
Marc Wittmann, Irina Strigo, Alan Simmons


https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4944121/ofanim/
Agnes de Lods Mar 23
The meaning of creative breath.
No one sees them,
they're the source of oxygen.
They nourish with thoughts,
symbols, and visions.
Don't ignore it.
What flows through us
is beyond us, and next to us.
Agnes de Lods Mar 30
Step by step,
bit by bit,
seen unseen
unknowing shape.

Concepts in rebuild
reconstruct what has fallen.

Come on,
let in some fresh air.
No need to be afraid
the same dark chants drift by.

Change resonance.
There is a chance
for a new beginning.
Agnes de Lods Mar 18
We are still creatures,
bound by the rules of logic,
superficial commitments
boil the truth.
Make the jump,
but only with full grasp!
Am I losing important links?

Is it that my intuition
is screaming?
Or is it just dry envy
whispering
that I am too weak
to be so good?
Am I seeing something more?
Or was it just the usual nightmare?

The realm of values
and the physical world
is being distorted like
Dalí’s dream.

My nightly vision was so clear:
Something was absorbing
thoughts of human beings,
under smooth talks,
tender words.

They left the untouched bodies
and the skulls white.

All were made
to break down the structure
from the inside.
What are the hidden reasons,
on a small and larger scale?

We live by metaphors,
blindly believing
that the reason is still strong.
But some things only appear innocent,
shaping sharp rocks.
Agnes de Lods Dec 2024
The circles of time overlap.
You see with myriad eyes.
Rings in different directions are spinning
At variable speed,
Following the invisible spirit.
You already know about everything,
But dogma’s tightness limits
Make you indifferent to
An individual fate lost in time and dimension.
A single person in the turn of the wheel
Of celestial spheres is like
An ant colony crushed by a hurtling machine.
Goal achieved:
Created on the ruins of destruction.
The fear of passing glimpses
Is just an echo of scattered glints
Orion’s Nebula.
I ask and I’m afraid of answers.
I chose the unskilled objection
Rather than conviction about inerrancy.
To be floating in your oblivion
Like a discordant sound
in a harmonic chant
of everything is my privilege,
My existential plan.
Agnes de Lods Mar 23
Like a moth,
you fly toward the fire,
you’re so close now.
Do you want to warm,
to burn, or extinguish
the light?
Osiem metrów wysokości.
Pośrodku szczelina.
Rzeźba dziecka z betonu
obok kontury ciała i pustka
po bezbronnej istocie,
której już nie ma.

Szorstka struktura szarości
rani delikatną skórę.
Głód. Choroby. Samotność.
Świat zapomina o tych,
co nie krzyczą głośno—
o tym co najbardziej boli:
o miażdżonej niewinności,
i olbrzymach pilnujących
orszak przestraszonych wielkich oczu
w małych, wychudzonych ciałach.

Pamięć nie jest wygodna.
Ona fizycznie boli.
Uparte rany nie goją się.
Było.
Jest.
Wije się w sąsiednich otchłaniach Tartaru.

Aksjomat przyjęty przez aklamację:
„Tak ma być!”

Cisza.

Na scenę wychodzi syn ocalałego.
Łamiącym się głosem szepcze:
Tata przeszedł piekło, ale kochał nas.
Przeżył, napisał pamiętniki.
Dał świadectwo.
Rozumiał ten wykolejony świat.


BROKEN HEARTS

Eight meters high.
A crevice in the center.

A concrete sculpture of a child
and the deep void.
Once there was another child,
now gone without a trace…

The rough grey texture
hurts fragile skin.
Hunger. Disease. Loneliness.

The world forgets
those who do not scream
and what hurts the most:
crushed innocence
guarded by the giants
watching the procession
of terrified wide eyes
in small, gaunt bodies.

Memory is not a peaceful place,
it brings physical pain.
It gnaws from underneath.

Stubborn,
festering wounds,
they refuse to heal.

It was.
It is.
It will happen again
by axiom,
accepted without question.

That is how it must be.

Like a venomous snake
slithering near the lands of Tartarus.
Endless sacrifice, leaden silence.

And then, the son of the survivor takes the stage.
He speaks in a whisper:

My Father went through hell, but he loved us.
He wrote it down—
a testimony of a derailed world.

He knew what it meant to be human
when it hurt.

He survived to love and to be loved.
Today, I participated in the commemoration of the children’s labor camp in Łódź, which operated during World War II.
Writing about it isn't easy. Remaining silent is even harder.
I wrote this reflection two hours ago.
It was inspired by the memorial sculpture Pęknięte Serce (Broken Heart), unveiled on June 2nd, 1971, in Łódź.
There is no excuse and there will never be for violence against
the defenseless.
Any system, any religion, any doctrine that does not protect children is
a failure.
Does the water reflect a piece of the sky?
In the photo I took,
I see the double transformation—
sky,
water,
digitalization.

One thought wrapped in excess words
fails to reveal stillness or truth.

It exists and doesn’t—
just one path in what we interpret.

Certainty distorts facts.
Time tangles itself.

A timeline slipping unnoticed
between belief and seductive hypnosis.

What was once conviction fades into a mirage.
Unveiled words build unyielding walls.
Communication is lost
the moment before the first word
is spoken.
Agnes de Lods Feb 25
Anxiety before anxiety,
sorrow before sorrow,
word before word.
I think it will arrive sooner
than I expected…

Had I felt differently?
Had I known better?
That “thing” was imprinted
on the heart of each child
before it was forgotten.

The Z boson? A particle of God?
Inner awareness?
Lightness and compassion
screaming: keep going!
Forgiveness is a gift
for healing.

I prefer to withdraw.
Foreseeing the future
is too painful.

I feel safe in my inertia,
my comfort zone, not acting
but that intrusive voice
keeps shouting: don’t stop!

If it weren’t the fear of fearing,
sorrow before sorrow,
word before word…
They don’t bother me anymore.
For different circumstances,
I’m ready now.
Agnes de Lods Feb 25
My old, out-of-tune piano,
when I play Metamorphosis by Philip Glass
through black-and-white eyes
speaks of me more truly
than a long, dramatic script.
Metamorphosis by Philip Glass One
Agnes de Lods May 16
How could I shield myself from the words
that lift me into the highest lowness?
Dearly beloved, raw openness,
the source of my grace and imperfection.

I feel strangely weightless
when my precognition
whispers to me about my possible future.
I hush all my names,
they’re not statues carved
by the thoughts of others.

I watch people drift in and out,
I touch the tree leaves in the cold wind.
Looking tenderly into the eyes of black ravens
I just try to see what they see.

I don’t fear the dark,
the primal womb that gives light
and birth to worlds spread across space.
Losing someone I love is my only fear.
Death comes uninvited, in its own time.

Love is my helpless, naked truth.
My moral compass still works
in my body.
At night, I find sleep and rest.
In light, the warmth,
and the souls of others.

I see the tired hearts
I find solace, looking into the light.
The body brings fleeting fullness.
I gather the crumbs of mystery,
expecting nothing,
just enough to find my dignity
and make peace with the unreachable.
Agnes de Lods Jan 21
Seeing the raindrops
meet a passing existence,
in limpid tears
A short reflection
Agnes de Lods Mar 26
A photo, a fragment of reality sent by my mother.
Just a piece of sky, one tree, and some ground,
a beautiful landscape with a hopeful, rising spring.
I am not there, but I feel a gentle wind,
carrying the scent of what is living.

On the tram ride,
I saw the damaged walls of the old house.
Some people still live there.
Are they disturbed or happier than I am?

Appearances can be so confusing and shallow.
Every perspective—another world.
The truth is scattered across small backgrounds.

Why do I feel amazed
that not every puzzle fits?

When I was returning home,
a young man sat next to me.
He started to talk about himself
and a series of unfortunate events.

He was looking at me
as if I was everything
while I was nothing more than a simple listener.

So, I got off, wishing him good luck,
knowing I wouldn't see that person again.
My life is overwhelmed by random encounters.

Now, I watch my memory of past situations.
I’m sifting through unclear interpretations,
wondering why I still dwell on symbols.

I wish I could believe
every circumstance was an opportunity,
a unique chance and not as things are today,
just casual happenstance
without coherence or deeper meaning.
Sometimes I just want things to mean more. Even if they don’t.
Why does this color feel so familiar to me?
Dreams—visions
bringing serenity into reality,
are present and yet still comforting…

It’s funny how casual symbols
and ephemeral frames together
create a surprisingly good script.

Once my dreams were nightmares,
goodbyes, delayed journeys.
But that night was different.
I wanted to fly in the light.
My spirit levitated
as gently as a bright spring day
in the silver-white flickering shine.

I saw my transparent corporeal tissues
my hands, my feet, my pulsing veins
a glowing surrealistic sketch.
For the first time, I felt deep and sincere,
fondness for my body.

How often have I punished myself harshly
for its perfect imperfection?
As I lay on the floor, wanting to numb the pain.
There is no poetry or beauty in physical,
ugly, unbearable suffering.

That night, I saw the deep blue-indigo sky
flowing through me as a quiet living brook
that I used to meet while walking on summer days
in the green, life-scented forest.

I saw my still-living body
so vulnerable, forsaken by my awareness.
When I woke up, I understood that
loving myself isn’t overwhelming egoism.
How strange that even a silly dream
could give me strength and bring me
to a safe home—to my own body.
Agnes de Lods Jan 31
Mirrors around me,
I reflect on them,
but I can’t see my face—
only a distant nature
and shapes of others.

What I felt became true,
my way home is buried.
I chose to vanish into air.
The invisibility shields me
from sharp shells.


Now I am safe,
avoiding the pull
of apparent lightness.
So, I close them
one by one—
patiently,
all unresolved riddles
in the eternal Sphinx gaze.
At the ocean's edge
of hypnotizing dances.
Agnes de Lods Mar 29
Three words whispered by someone
in the past were drifting behind my eyes:
“Don’t embarrass yourself.”
  
Trigger-induction, hypnotic phrase
stiffening my muscles,  
getting stuck in my legs.

These words make me straighten up
just in case, to avoid becoming a farce,
to not risk interior pain.

I walked through the narrow hallway
some stories were explained,
others remained in the pharynx
of watchful colossal squid.

I’m a broken record,
a sponge drinking salt drops.
Hidden, desiring wishes used  
not to be said.

Self-censorship is an easy way.
Just with a bit of self-irony,
I try to play fair; I try to play safe.

Stamping my tiny, rumpled ticket
joining a collective perfect match,
even if I don’t fit into this craziest crowd.

Until now, when through the crack,
the water has gone untamed,
refusing to return to the flood control dam.

I’m afraid of what will be next
when the water swallows
my piece of comfort la-la land.

Caught asking myself
to go where there is real music
or stay in an illusory state.
A strange, dense, heavy word.
Once, graceful and noble
or it seemed to be
until I used it too much.
I know that something fails,
that I’m losing its huge potential.

If I pronounce it aloud
it doesn’t shine anymore for me
in the tiny corners of my mind.
It lingered awkwardly, repeating
“I’m here!”.

The tangled threads
imposing new interpretations.
The materializing weight of sounds.
It's a bitter pill to swallow,
but I know the side effects.

The lightness of the feather
turns into a red brick.
When it hits me,
my inner calm ceases to exist.

I’m struggling to rationalize,
to be more tolerant.
And I just ask myself:
if I truly believe,
why do I say it?

The word so needed,
so loved,
in the silence,
in conviction,
in the presence of no absence.

Something authentic,
wasn’t it meant to be spoken?
So sinister…
it builds and destroys.

The word,

the idea

of




TRUST...
Agnes de Lods Mar 22
Yesterday time stopped,
elephants didn’t fly
indifference still feels fine
but I didn’t retreat from this moment.

Now more than ever  
in my world,
in my existence.
I see, I still have the ability
to act, to live, to feel,
to not complain,
to not explain why I am like this.

When I met you
in reality,
simply shaking hands,
the human gaze
without a double mindset

I recognized that
serendipity would untangle
what remained muddled, and
I allow myself to choose simple trust
not to latibulate
even if it sounds a bit archaic.
to latibulate- to hide oneself in a corner
Agnes de Lods Mar 18
Scratches on broken glass,
echoes drifting apart.
Neither distance nor time
can erase them.

What came before me
still touches me so deeply.
Memory, language, and land
flow through my veins.

The blissful days were fractured
by wounds never healed.
Stories whispered,
never reaching the community.

The victors write
the official version,
but minds and hearts hold their truths.
Agnes de Lods Feb 17
Before, I didn’t want this silence
I struggled with an untamed aphasia
I thought if I no longer had voices,
hums, spinning chimes,
it would become nothingness,
the perfect cosmic vacuum.

Unfinished strands seeking new lands
trying to fill the jug
with the whispers of soul dust…
The fading echo defends itself
against absolute emptiness.

They keep talking,
they still try deforming a single atom
so as not to disappear.
But the polyphonic dimension of tones
is slowly dying down.
A breath of the universe's relief,
a pulsating consciousness rising
giving gentle, immense serenity.
I want every word of mine
not to punch, but to touch quietly,
to invisibly reach another heart.

I don’t need to write
if my words have not been truly welcomed
it’s better they vanish in the air, into oblivion.

Too much pain has been
engraved like a tragic keepsake
on the map of human downfall.

Can I blame the destructive inner flames
for being a fixed part of existence?
No, I can’t! I couldn’t!

I absorb the marvelous juicy green depth
with blue skies and shining clouds,
such moving beauty
as a witness to personal struggle.

And I am still afraid of tears
of others’ screams,
and of my helplessness.
I don’t want to be too late to help,
to choose the wrong word,
the wrong path.

I wish when it comes to me
to be ready and calm
to open my eyes wide,
to freeze my fears,
and to act without doubt
with all my silent conviction.
Free from assumptions,
from the endless “why?”
the burning need for a unique sign.
I move just one small step back
to protect my lands not taken.

Sometimes enough feels quite soft
like a rotten tree trunk covered in moss.
I can sit and rest for a while,
diving deeply into the forest of tangled thoughts.

This time, I would like to be gentle and tender
to my inner world, to my tired soul.
I let it be calm, I allow this time
to give myself kindness.
Agnes de Lods Apr 18
They come with lofty thoughts,
burning away caring hearts,
melting down steel in the forge of Hephaestus:
individuality, critical thinking.

Carving the stone with faint whispers,
then with audacious, arrogant songs.
Words offer a sinister image of meaning,
multiplied by lost hopes, by longing.

The green-eyed monster walks,
hand in hand with the vicious chants,
muddling the calm of deep waters,
vanishing beliefs of solidarity.

Saying goodbye to tender softness,
giving away our pieces to the abstract,
cutting and throwing into non-existence
what once felt stable, what was given.

With grudge and pain, setting up barbed wire
for what was done in the past.
Passing by, you can’t shout
still, you need to defend yourself.

Looking deeply into eyes, we could
touch the essence, written in the gaze,
to read between the words, hidden stories,
but it’s already forbidden.

How difficult it is to truly accept,
with an open mind, an open heart,
in this cloudy, dense air of misleading stories

Another Human.
Imperceptible losses
and rebirths
in one human life.
Dreams, people saying goodbye
in an elliptical circle of losses
with blooming awareness.

This is a permanent, seductive opposition
of invisible, changing thoughts.
A tug-of-war between
the beautiful glimpses
of pure emptiness,
and refreshing fever, the will to live.

Who am I?
I’m a multitude of small deaths and rebirths
longing for something hazy…
So, I say every night to myself, without regret
“Sweet dreams” looking in the mirror.

I let the bird out of the cage:
the woman who I am now,
to welcome, tomorrow early morning,
the same but no longer the same.
And so, I came into being
a New Incarnation…
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