Follow your heart
FROM THE AUTHOR
PREFACE
Thus, I am silent, trembling in my place,
Not from disdain, nor yet a heart’s disgrace.
Nay, ’tis the weight of love, too vast, too deep,
That binds my tongue and bids my silence keep.
Let this poor book, my messenger, unfold,
The truths of hearts unspoken, yet untold.
Within its pages, find my soul laid bare,
A plea for justice in life’s fleeting air.
William Shakespeare
The first lines I ever wrote emerged one day in the quiet solitude of a blank notebook. I began not merely to describe what I observed, but to capture the essence of what I felt. At the time, I was steeped in sorrow, mourning a father whose memory was but a shadow. Though I scarcely recall his presence, he lived. And now, he is no more. How I longed for him to sit before me, clad in a cerulean sweater – as he once appeared in a dream – a man of quiet strength, with the noble visage of a young Alain Delon and eyes brimming with wisdom. How I yearned to hear him say, “If you were born, it is because this world needs you. Your path is written; you must find it. And within it, your truest self.” But no such words came. I shall never know what it means to have a father’s voice guide me.
As the evening deepened and shadows embraced the room, the rustle of a weeping willow outside drew my thoughts, and I wrote these lines for him:
Weeping willow, why do you bow so low,
Your branches trembling where soft waters flow?
Why do the tears of the earth, like frozen pearls,
Hang on your crown, veiling the world?
Why does my heart bear a shard of despair,
A cold, cruel fragment etched with care?
You left too soon, beyond clouds’ veil,
And now my castle lies in ruins, frail.
You vanished forever, yet left a flame,
A dream that whispers your sacred name.
You are gone, and I am bereft,
As though half of my soul has cleft.
Weeping willow, you guard my grief,
Your shelter offering fragile relief.
Tears fall silent, carving their way,
Through dreams that pierce the heart each day.
This book speaks to you, dear reader. It holds fragments of my soul, whispers of answers, or perhaps faint echoes of your own fears: the chill of solitary sunsets, the silence of unyielding walls, and the fleeting joy of a sunlit breeze, a distant dream that illuminates the soul. Dreams are not mere steps toward an end; they are the journey itself, revealing who we are and why we exist. What is life? A dream? A temptation? Perhaps only in the void left by loss do we begin to glimpse the answer.
For years, I guarded these pages, hesitant to let them see the light. Now, you hold my first book in your hands. The second waits in the wings, long adrift like a spectral ship navigating the seas of my heart. There are those who will find joy – yes, joy – in knowing this book has come to life. They will wait, with reverence, for what follows.
What is this book? Who is its hero, and why will it be read? A book is first and foremost needed by the one who writes it. Through writing, we traverse the labyrinth of words and uncover fragments of ourselves. Is this a tale? A poem? A legend? A truth? Chaos or the final sigh of a fading philosophy? The essence of life lies in learning to listen and to see, to create and to feel, to remain steadfast and true to oneself, in harmony with the infinite.
In the quest for truth, humanity often imprisons itself within “black squares,” forgetting that life flows like a river, where no drop ever repeats. Fear twists the mind, renders paths barren and winding, and makes life seem hollow. Even a spark of fear can ignite flames that raze entire cities. What is this book about? Who needs it? Perhaps it is for those who love me, or for those longing to be heard. Nature gives everything to humanity. Life is the art of preserving, understanding, nurturing, and creating – with warmth in the soul and fire in the heart.
Heart – how often I invoke that word, as though no other could carry my meaning. Yet it is not so. All I write, all I feel, is shaped by the works and life of Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky. He is my eternal teacher; I declared as much during my thesis defence and have never rescinded those words.
One evening in Saint Petersburg, after a literary event, an elderly woman approached me, her hand trembling as it grasped mine. “My child,” she said, “thank you for existing.” That evening, I was needed. And there are others too, those who need my words, my verses, as companions to their solitude. I know what it is to feel the rhythm of a heart – not from the elation of love, but from the aching void of loss, or the fear of losing something irrevocably. In such moments, I do not wish to be alone. My heart is sincere, and sincerity is the pillar that sustains not only the one who holds it but those around them.
Thank you for opening this book and seeking to understand me – and perhaps, through my words, to understand yourself. The idea of these diaries has dwelt within me for as long as I can remember. It is not a memoir but a meditation on why we exist, and why the world was created around us. At times, it is enlightening; at others, deeply melancholic. Yet it always answers a question: Was the step taken, and where did it lead? Life flows on – it is boundless yet fleeting. And I know this: the world is a chronicle we write ourselves. This is what I wish to share with you, dear reader. To affirm that my birth was no accident, and that I yearn to be worthy of this world, to be needed within it.
In these pages, you may find countless imperfections, but behind them lies the tempest of my heart, a storm only those with open eyes and untainted souls can weather. At an exhibition of his sketches, Paco Rabanne once said to me, “I see three eyes in you. Open them!” Perhaps by sharing this book, I shall find a doorway I had not even known existed.
Not long ago, Sergey Slonimsky invited me to the Hermitage Theatre for his creative evening. As I sat in that hallowed space, my verses were transformed into romances. Words cannot capture what I felt in that moment. Once more, I saw how vast and varied the human soul is, and how differently we perceive the same truths – if only we are willing to see and hear.
A great soul once said, “By transforming your consciousness, you create your universe.” Dear reader, follow the call of your heart.
FOLLOW YOUR HEART OR THE DIARY OF FRANÇOISE DE CHAMBORD «THE TEAR OF SILENCE»…
“The sun rose quietly, painting the horizon with strokes of gold and lavender. I woke at 5 am, my heart eager to meet the day. The rain had left its mark on the earth, and the air was fresh with the scent of renewal. I pulled on my boots and walked under the soft drizzle, my diary tucked close to my chest. The world was silent, save for the gentle rhythm of my breath and the occasional rustle of leaves. Today, I will write about the connection between law and poetry – both seeking truth, both navigating the intricate maze of human emotion… And suddenly I thought… The trees are the earth’s endless effort to speak to the listening heaven.”
A DIARY… Within it dwells a thousand desires,
Love, separation, and sorrow entire.
Within it lie barriers and fervent pleas,
Strength and a prayer carried on the breeze.
I sought no madness, no trespass of the soul,
Only fragments of truth that make me whole.
Time slips away, its seconds obscure,
Masking joy and pain that endure.
Is poetry a herald or an end?
An empty vessel, or a truth to transcend?
Judge not life with a hardened gaze,
I sought to remind you of fleeting days.
Hear not the word alone, but the hidden key,
For beyond these lines lies you and me.
I love life—wildly, recklessly, and true!
Understand this: destiny waits for you.
Happiness is readiness, a path aligned,
For those who seek, and those who find.
THUS, IT MUST BE LOVE
“Morning broke gently, as if painted by a delicate hand. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the stillness, weaving a quiet intimacy that only dawn could bring. The pages of a well-loved book lay open before me, words whispering secrets of times long past. My pen hovered over the diary, caught between the present and the weight of emotions longing to be expressed”.
Thus, it must be love—a tender, fleeting flame,
A melody spun from the fabric of dreams.
Restless yet gentle, it lingers on the edge of thought,
Whispering truths where silence once held sway.
Like sunlight tracing shadows on a waking wall,
It is both fragile and eternal,
A promise unspoken, yet deeply known.
Feelings once forged in stone now yield to time’s caress,
And scattered leaves murmur stories long forgotten.
I, unaware of love’s deft hand,
Awoke to its rhythm in the quiet warmth of a morning cup—
An ache, a joy, a binding thread.
Let us inscribe it, I whispered to the dawn,
For love, like the first breath of day,
Must never fade from memory.
THE SILENT RIVER
"Each poem I write is a thread in the tapestry of my soul. These verses are not merely words; they are fragments of silence given form. I call my collection The Tear of Silence, for it is born from the quiet places within me – the moments between breath, the spaces between words. Let these pages speak where my voice cannot."
Oh, silent river, where do you flow?
Through valleys of light, through shadows below?
Do you carry the dreams of those who sleep,
Or secrets of hearts that ache and weep?
Your current winds through the forest deep,
Whispering truths I long to keep.
Oh, river of silence, take me too,
To lands unseen, where the heart is true.
INTUITION – A PROPHECY OR A POWER
“This morning, I wandered through the halls of the Hermitage. The paintings and sculptures seemed alive, whispering truths I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear. A thought clung to me: is intuition a blessing, or does it deceive us? I couldn’t let it rest…”
Is intuition a prophecy or a power,
That reason cloaks in the shadow of fear by night?
A sculptor, loud and angry,
Or a mocking, devilish, cunning spirit?
Perhaps the vision of distant horizons
Shields us from the pettiness of care?
This highest force of nature—
A coin with the double-headed eagle.
Boundless, with sorrows diminished,
To plunge through the depths and soar
Above the shooting stars that carry afar,
Mingling reason with feeling into one braid.
The kingdom of shadows bows its knees.
Veiled by fire, a mournful whistle,
Or the murmur of indecent persecution,
Or the creak of unsealed chains.
The power of intuition is corrupting,
Trying to justify doubt,
And in the whirl of lies, pleading and tearfully
Weaving balm for the soul.
Premonition, at times, lies buried
In the immeasurable riches of rumour,
Bloated, alluring with unease,
Iron shackles on the dreams.
Under the onslaught of heavy artillery,
The blind guard the blind with care.
Muted, shameful, and pitiful,
Day by day, we lose each moment.
Oh, if only that spark of revelation
Could join with calculated reason,
Flooding persecutions with calm wisdom
And transforming them into a crown of triumph!
To taste the game without praising the sinner,
To acknowledge the struggle without succumbing to it,
To know oneself and set a goal,
To believe in it wholly, without guile.
I LOVE YOU
«The stars were my companions tonight. I sat by the window, candlelight flickering beside me, and wrote about love. “True love,” I mused, “is like the stars – constant, guiding, yet untouchable. It lights our way, even in the darkest moments.”
I love you… yet no words on earth suffice,
To cage the boundless, to embody skies.
No thread of speech can weave the soul’s bright flame,
No art can mirror what no heart could name.
My love for you… a rose ablaze with fire,
Its petals strewn upon the path of dreams.
Its crimson burn has marked my lips entire—
To touch you once is to feel passion’s streams.
Life spins its threads amidst the starry spheres—
I found you, and it eclipsed all my fears.
May love’s eternal hearth, our steadfast light,
Be ever yours, the beacon through the night.
My love… a wave of tenderness and might,
It draws you close, yet dares to take your flight.
It speaks of worlds both perilous and sweet,
Where danger yields beneath our hearts’ fierce beat.
Angel or demon, flesh or spirit’s guise,
I do not know, but in your gaze truth lies.
What life was mine before your light broke through?
The seas are fiercer now, but they’re for you.
WHEN ONE EYE LOOKS AHEAD
“The night before my first university exam, doubts swirled in my mind. What if I failed? What if I lost myself in the pursuit of success? I picked up my pen and wrote to find clarity…”
When one eye looks ahead,
The other seeks the hidden thread.
I rush forward, doubts cast behind,
And the wind strikes sharp, unkind.
But if I lose my inner flame,
The path dissolves, a fleeting game.
Flowers bow in silent grief,
And all I sought becomes too brief.
Battling whims with futile tears,
I waste my strength through empty fears.
To understand is not to yield,
But to stand firm, with soul as shield.
Eyes, mirrors of a restless soul,
Veiled by storms that take their toll.
Inside, a tempest churns and sighs,
While peace, elusive, shuns the skies.
Flames rage, searing heart and mind,
Agonies leave no solace behind.
Doubts, fears, and fierce reproach ignite,
Until the soul reclaims its light.
A weakened spirit bends and breaks,
Steeped in the trials life undertakes.
Yet strength within, a steadfast guide,
Holds the body when all else has died.
“Vices are evil,” the wise declare,
Yet truth and virtue are rarely fair.
When judgment falls, swift and austere,
Even the proud bow low in fear.
But when thoughts rise, the chariot rolls,
To wage a war within the soul.
And only those who endure the test,
Will stand and say, “Hold fast! I’m blessed!”
NEARLY TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO
“Visiting Dostoevsky’s museum was a pilgri. As I stood by his desk, I felt the weight of his words, timeless and true. This poem is my tribute to him, to his city, and to his legacy…”
Nearly two hundred years ago,
The ink first etched its sacred flow,
Through tortured minds and silent halls,
It shaped the world within these walls.
A city swathed in smoke and stone,
Bore witness to the seeds he’d sown.
His quill revealed the aching cries,
The human soul, its lowly skies.
Through guilt’s embrace and maddened love,
He sought the heavens up above.
His seizures—gifts, both curse and grace,
Unveiled the frailty of our race.
The spire of Peter’s dreams stood tall,
While fog embraced the river’s call.
A dual city, shadowed, bright,
Where sin and virtue shared the night.
He walked the streets where horses trod,
Where stones bore weight beneath their nod.
And in their laboured, ceaseless tread,
He felt eternity’s hymn instead.
Dostoevsky’s eyes could see
The duality of humanity.
His legacy whispers, timeless and clear,
In Peter’s mist and Dostoevsky’s sphere.
I DROPPED MY SWORD IN BATTLE
“After a long day as a lawyer, exhaustion weighed on me like armour I couldn’t remove. It was as if I had fought a battle only to discover there was no victory. I poured my weariness into these words…”
I dropped my sword in battle’s haze,
A weary knight through endless days.
My armour fractured, my spirit worn,
A silent witness to wars I’ve borne.
I left my demons in the dust,
But still, they clawed, relentless, just.
No laurel crowns, no victor’s prize,
Just thorn-strewn paths beneath grey skies.
The cross I carried, sharp and cold,
Has bent my back, no strength to hold.
I sought the light in fleeting dreams,
But found instead life’s fractured streams.
Why does fate’s flame so fiercely burn,
Only to fade, its embers churn?
The ash takes root where passion lay,
And life, once bright, dissolves to grey.
My soul, unbound, begins to rave,
Immortal spirit, mortal slave.
The poison tempts, salvation calls,
Yet shadows stalk these hallowed halls.
A knight once stood within my chest,
Now he lies still, resigned to rest.
With trembling hands, I lift my plea:
Is peace found only in the sea?
The veins that pulse, the silvered strands,
The fleeting strength of faltering hands—
I search the skies, the earth, the sword,
And find no solace, save the Lord.
Through battlefields of endless night,
I march alone, devoid of light.
Yet hope, a whisper soft, delays—
Perhaps the dawn will bring my day.
I WHISPER TO YOU
“The evening had surrendered to the quiet embrace of twilight, the sky a soft canvas of fading hues. Trees stood as shadows against the horizon, their silhouettes etched in stillness. A silver thread of moonlight spilled across the waves, weaving the realms of reality and reverie. In that sacred stillness, words rose unbidden, fragile and eternal, carried on the breath of the night.”
I whisper to you:
“With you, it feels like the wind—
Unseen, unbound, yet endlessly kind.”
Your gaze, a flame both fierce and free,
Writes silent verses in eternity.
Did you forget? My heart still dreams,
Of echoes carried on love’s streams.
The night, once tangled, now unwinds,
In your light, my soul resigns.
I know the ache, the breaking soul,
How shadows linger, take their toll.
Yet love endures, with wings to fly,
Through tempest winds, toward your sky.
Your eyes, an ocean—boundless, deep,
A tide that holds, where secrets sleep.
Within their depths, I am whole,
A flower reborn, a mended soul.
Are you a dream? A fleeting glow?
A trace of stars, or truths I know?
Are you eternal, or just the rain—
A moment lost, then found again?
I cannot place where you abide,
In waking worlds or hearts that hide.
But you are mine, my steadfast grace,
A love no time or storm could erase.
THE NAME THAT STARTED IT ALL
“‘Mum’ – the first word I ever truly understood. It means love without limits, support without conditions, wisdom without arrogance, and joy so boundless it lights up the darkest days. A name that holds the universe of my heart.”
A TRIBUTE TO MY MUM
The day I opened my eyes to this earth,
It wasn’t the world I saw, but your worth.
With brown eyes deep as autumn’s hue,
A gaze so wise, forever true.
Your hands, so gentle, held my own,
Guiding me softly to the unknown.
Your hair, kissed by the sun’s embrace,
Framed the kindness etched on your face.
Through every tear, through every fear,
Your voice became the song I’d hear.
You held me close when the nights grew long,
Your love, my fortress, unwavering and strong.
You taught me courage, to stand up tall,
To rise with pride when the world would call.
You showed me beauty in the simplest things,
In whispered prayers and angel’s wings.
A clever mind, a heart so pure,
A friend, a guide, a love so sure.
You judged me fair, yet never cruel,
Your wisdom, Mum, my greatest school.
You gave your all, your dreams, your days,
So I might live in brighter ways.
You built a bridge where none could stand,
And led me safely, hand in hand.
And now, as life moves ever on,
Your lessons linger, your light not gone.
For even when the years grow wide,
You’re here, my Mum, my constant guide.
How little we knew, how blind we’d been,
To all the love you wove unseen.
Your laughter brightened endless skies,
Your happiness, the greatest prize.
So today I say, with every breath,
Your love transcends both time and death.
Mum, my anchor, my closest friend,
Your legacy of love will never end.
To Mum:
The truest word my heart ever knew, the most sacred bond my soul ever held. This is for you – my everything, my always, my forever.
I LOVE TO SPEAK AND LEAVE
“Words unspoken are like shadows at dusk—their absence lingers, haunting, shaping what might have been. After my first debate at law school, I found myself at odds with the words I left unspoken. There is something haunting about what remains unfinished. This is what I wrote that evening.”
I love to speak and then depart,
Leaving words to haunt the heart.
To flee, unbound by whispered dreams,
Deaf to life’s hasty schemes.
I love to leave my verse undone,
With dots where meaning is overrun.
Reflections linger—just behold,
The torment they weave, so bitter, so bold.
Beneath the gossamer veil of speech,
A soulful haven lies to reach.
Amid the throngs of fleeting forms,
Resides the eternal, untouched by storms.
I WANT TO BE MYSELF
“The wind along the coast speaks not to our ears but to the quiet places within, calling us to remember who we are. Walking along the Amalfi Coast, I felt the breeze call me. It wasn’t the wind or the sea – it was something from within, asking me to be true to myself.”
I want to be myself, unbound,
Not another’s shadow found.
A wind that dances on ocean streams,
Or a breeze that brushes through fleeting dreams.
The waves hold magic, fierce yet pure,
A silent power that will endure.
I long to rise, a bird set free,
To soar through skies of infinity.
Not shaped by hands of another’s art,
But true to the rhythm of my heart.
I seek to rise where my spirit dwells,
Not someone else—but myself, and well.
LOVE CASTS US INTO THE ABYSS
“Love is the fire that lights the heavens and scorches the earth. It leaves nothing untouched. After visiting an exhibition on passion in Italian Renaissance art, I was struck by the intensity of love’s duality—how it uplifts and destroys all at once. That night, I wrote this.”
Love casts us into the abyss,
A dream of tomorrow’s bliss.
“You rise and cannot see,”
Cries the star, disgraced and free.
Love burns the heart, consumes the soul,
Leaving us less than whole.
It dries the body, quenches the flame,
And leaves us wandering, lost to shame.
Empty love, a shadowed thought,
A fortress of tears where hope is caught.
The sword of love, both iron and fire,
Breaks upon words of reckless desire.
AUTUMN WHISPERS IN PARIS
“On an autumn evening in Paris, I walked beneath the golden rain of leaves, their whispers carried by the wind. The city felt alive, as if it, too, breathed the poetry of the season.”
The autumn wind calls, soft and low,
Through Paris streets where shadows grow.
It stirs the leaves in a golden flight,
A fleeting dance in the fading light.
The Seine reflects the twilight’s glow,
Its waters deep, where dreams still flow.
Beneath the arches, the city hums,
To the rhythm of footsteps, as evening comes.
The air is sharp, the world feels near,
A tapestry woven with love and fear.
The bells of Notre Dame softly chime,
Marking the hours, stealing time.
A café table, a pen in hand,
Words take flight at fate’s command.
The city speaks in a thousand ways,
In autumn whispers, in smoky haze.
The wind may chill, but hearts stay warm,
Sheltered by love in every storm.
Paris in autumn, a bittersweet song,
Where moments linger, though nights grow long.
RAINSONG IN THE CITY
“As the rain fell, I stood at the window, watching the city blur into a painting. Each droplet seemed to carry a secret, and the rhythm of the storm stirred something deep within me.”
The rain begins, a gentle sigh,
A silver veil from a tearful sky.
Each droplet dances upon the stone,
A hymn for the lost, the wandering, alone.
The rooftops glisten, the streets take sheen,
The world reborn in shades serene.
Windows blur with a liquid art,
Each streak a story, each smear a heart.
The scent of rain—earth’s quiet prayer,
Lingering soft in the heavy air.
A rhythm steady, a timeless beat,
A soothing balm for weary feet.
And as it falls, it seems to say,
“Pain will pass, just as clouds give way.
The darkest skies will always part,
For rain is the language of the heart.”
When the storm subsides and silence remains,
The world is brighter for the cleansing rains.
And in the stillness, the soul may see,
The beauty that comes from simplicity.
IT IS EASY AND SIMPLE TO BE FREE
“After my first television job, I stood on the roof of the studio, gazing at the stars. The breeze whispered freedom, but I wondered: was it truly easy to feel free? In that moment, I learned freedom demands more than wings—it demands wisdom, courage, and the strength to be wholly yourself in a world that never stops watching.”
It is easy and simple to be free,
But only if your soul agrees —
To walk a path that few have known,
And claim as yours a life your own.
In the dazzling glow of the studio’s light,
I performed my part, I fought the fight.
To be wise, so my eyes could speak,
To be clever, quick with words unique.
But beneath the script, behind the scene,
A quieter truth lay, unforeseen:
To be strong meant more than to endure,
It meant to hold my essence pure.
For in this world of fleeting frames,
Where every step calls forth acclaim,
It’s easy to lose what makes you whole,
To trade applause for your very soul.
Freedom asks for more than flight,
More than dreams beneath the night.
It asks for wisdom, so your heart can lead,
And strength to rise when the world impedes.
To react, to reply, in clever command,
To steady yourself when you barely can stand.
To gather the chaos, the noise, the pain,
And funnel it all through heart, mind, and brain.
It is freedom to smile when the cameras roll,
To balance the weight of a scripted role.
But greater still is the quiet art,
Of staying true to a tender heart.
The lights may fade, the applause subside,
But freedom is found on the soul’s inside.
It is not the fame, the roar, the glare,
But the strength to know yourself out there.
To soar alone where dreams take flight,
To harness the stars that pierce the night,
To hold your ground, through storms that reign,
And transform the struggle into gain.
For freedom is not the wind’s embrace,
Nor the fleeting charm of a familiar face.
It’s the wisdom to see, the strength to know,
That to truly be free, you must let yourself grow.
So let the stars be your silent guide,
Let the truth within you coincide.
For freedom is not just to flee—
It is to stand, unbroken, and simply be.
VINTAGE TEARS RUN DOWN THE WALLS
“There is a solemnity in decay, where time itself breathes heavier than silence, and every crack whispers secrets of the past. In Venice, I found a room that seemed to listen to its own sorrow.”
In the depth of a Venetian night,
Beneath the moon’s uncertain light,
A woman stands where shadows fall,
Her voice caught in an ancient hall.
The walls, adorned with vintage tears,
Bear witness to forgotten years.
Each faded fresco, each fractured stone,
Holds whispers of lives once brightly known.
Beneath the dust of chandeliers,
The room still aches with long-lost fears.
Velvet drapes in tatters cling,
Like ghosts that mourn but cannot sing.
She stands, a figure carved from strength,
Her voice stretched out to its full length.
“Listen,” she cries, “to the echo within,
For silence itself holds where dreams begin.”
A lace gown, crumpled on the floor,
Speaks of nights when love implored,
Yet now, its threads are bare and thin,
A testament to what had been.
Time’s relentless, unyielding tide,
Has robbed this room of all its pride.
The mirror cracks, its gilded frame,
Reflecting only time’s cruel claim.
Yet she, unbowed, unbroken, tall,
Faces the shadows that haunt this hall.
“Do you hear me?” she whispers loud,
“I am not buried beneath the shroud.
These walls may crumble, stone may crack,
But I am here, and I am back.
To speak of love, to speak of fire,
To breathe again, to rise, inspire.”
Her tears do not fall weak or frail,
They run like rivers through the veil.
Of time, of loss, of longing’s weight,
They forge a path, defying fate.
The villa weeps with her refrain,
Its vintage tears no longer vain.
Her voice unites the past with now,
To memories forgotten, she makes her vow.
“Hold my strength in these walls divine,
Let them remember what once was mine.
Not just a shadow, not just a trace,
But the life I lived, the dreams I chased.”
And as her words fill every space,
Venice itself seems to embrace,
The woman who dared to defy the years,
Turning silence to song, and pain to tears.
Vintage tears still run, but now,
They sing of love’s eternal vow.
A room reborn in echoes’ grace,
A timeless woman’s rightful place.
SUCH A FOOLISH CHILD
“We live within labyrinths of our own creation, blindfolded by the fears we nurture. This poem was born from a silent plea to shatter those walls and let the light pour in.”
They said life is but a fleeting moment,
A shadow that dances and fades with dawn.
Yet you, child, cling to the darkness,
Chained by fears you call your own.
You carry burdens unseen, unspoken,
Your satchel heavy with the weight of years.
Pain walks beside you, silent and ceaseless,
Fear whispers softly, fueling your tears.
Foolish child, so cruel, so lost,
Wandering through mazes of your mind.
Your soul, a prisoner of shallow mirrors,
Where love’s reflection you cannot find.
Blind though you see, you twist the truth,
Your thoughts, a web of veils and lies.
Peace is within your grasp, yet you shun it,
Pointing outward with reproachful eyes.
Drunk on dreams of freedom’s fire,
Yet you build your prison stone by stone.
The illusions you weave consume your spirit,
And in the void, you are alone.
A single tear betrays your sorrow,
Deceived by hope, you dare not believe.
You doubt, you envy, you rage, you wander,
But all the while, the world still breathes.
All will pass, and you will fade—
Fading into a world of shadows,
Where passion, love, and dreams are buried,
Forgotten beneath the fear you sowed.
Child, awaken! Let the walls collapse.
Let your soul breathe where stars collide.
The universe awaits your courage,
To ignite the fire you hold inside.
Look! The world is calling you home,
Its colours bursting like radiant blooms.
Return, and let your spirit soar—
For life, dear child, is yours to consume.
A SECRET HIDDEN INSIDE ME
“There is a fire within that never dims – a whisper, a longing, an ancient voice that calls us to the horizon. This is my ode to the secrets we carry and the strength they ignite.”
A secret lies deep within me,
Its name veiled by the sands of time.
A passion burns, a riddle unfolds,
Its flame eternal, yet undefined.
Sanskrit whispers trace my veins,
Carved in ink both fierce and tender.
The calligraphy of a restless soul,
Seeking truths it cannot surrender.
Freedom’s chime echoes within,
Yet its chains sing songs of years to come.
The horizon tempts with its blazing lure,
A rebel’s dream, where fears succumb.
The madness of longing taunts my sleep,
A panther prowling in moonlit dreams.
It paces within the caverns of my heart,
And I feel its strength in my silent screams.
What keeps me tethered, what pulls me near?
A vice, a love, a life I revere.
It is the ache of wanting, the fire of faith,
The relentless pull of an unseen fate.
Perhaps it is madness—this hunger, this fire.
Or perhaps it is power, unyielding desire.
To grasp what lies beyond the veil,
To touch the stars and carve my trail.
Within me roars this ancient song,
Its melody fierce, its rhythm strong.
A vice, a virtue, a secret flame,
Forever hidden, yet never tame.
O secret, will you always hide?
Or will you burst forth, unbound, untied?
Within you lies my dream, my fight,
The eternal struggle for life and light.
WE HAVE EXHAUSTED OUR RESOURCES
“In our race for more, we forget the balance that sustains us. This poem is a reflection on the paradox of our existence – a cycle of creation and destruction, of hope and despair.”
We have plundered the earth,
Chasing shadows across the sands.
With empty hands, we climb the peaks,
Dreaming of summits we do not understand.
In temples, we bow to gods unseen,
Yet honour idols wrought by man.
Our prayers are whispered into the void,
While greed and fear shape our plans.
We slow the moon’s silent march,
At the brink of the abyss, we pause.
But only to grasp at fleeting treasures,
Never to question their cause.
Armoured by fear, we march through storms,
Seeking solace in a fleeting sun.
Our hearts, volcanoes of rebellion and sorrow,
Erupt with dreams that cannot be undone.
The rain falls, but does not cleanse,
The rivers flow, but do not heal.
We are both creators and destroyers,
Bound by a wheel we cannot still.
O humanity, what will remain?
When the forests wither and the oceans drain?
When the earth, exhausted, falls silent at last,
And our dreams are relics of a forgotten past?
THE DISTANT ROAD
“The road ahead is a metaphor for all we seek and fear. It stretches endlessly, both a promise and a challenge – a reflection of our inner journey.”
The road, the distant road,
How it beckons with its endless lines.
The wind whispers of places unknown,
Of shadows cast by ancient signs.
Lost in dreams, I tread this path,
Each step a question, each shadow a doubt.
The sea crashes, its waves dissolve,
Leaving foam where hope runs out.
I yearned for loss, for wisdom’s cost,
But now, what remains of me?
Perhaps only dust upon the breeze,
A fleeting ghost of what could be.
Where is the path, so pure, so bright,
That destiny promised in the stars?
Its horizon fades into the night,
Yet I still follow its endless scars.
The road, the distant road,
Its echoes haunt my restless heart.
The wind carries my soul away,
Yet I am bound to its eternal start.
In the road’s embrace, I find my truth —
Not in its end, but in its length.
For every shadow and every stone,
Grants me wisdom, grants me strength.
THE WHISPER OF LEAVES
“There was a strange stillness that day, as if the world whispered secrets meant only for the brave to hear. I listened to the leaves, and they carried my fears away.”
The whisper of leaves, fresh winds that cry —
Have we strayed too far beneath this sky?
Perhaps the shard’s edge has cut too deep,
Or the heart’s soft murmur is bound to weep.
A cup falls, shattering in shadowed halls,
A mouse scurries through the silken walls.
Summer has fled, its blossoms dry,
Night’s harsh voice cloaks the garden’s sigh.
Bread turns stale, preserved by mould;
Life lingers on, though not all hold.
A butterfly hides from the empty air,
While water whispers, clouds declare.
The wind moans low, the oak tree bends,
Rumours grow heavy, no voice defends.
Grief drowns grief in this solemn haze,
Cold hands falter, the heart obeys.
The phone rings sharply, a hollow tone,
Echoing glances, a mossy stone.
The tempter’s jest – a cruel disguise,
In paper traps and clever lies.
Coins bow heads; they make us kneel,
Prayers rise heavy, their weight too real.
War without war, hunger’s quiet refrain,
Gold unseen, marking days of pain.
THE ENCHANTED CASTLE
“Dreams sometimes open doors to places we cannot return from. I stood before a castle, its gates swinging wide, and I walked through, knowing the world would never be the same.”
A castle of dreams, its gates unfold,
Once shy, now bold, in whispers told.
I gather words like fleeting sighs,
The river’s rush, where longing lies.
This tender world, so soft, remains—
Why do thoughts bear so many stains?
The sand, the breath, the salt-laced kiss,
Draw me toward a hidden abyss.
The body shrouded in velvet mist,
The sea-wind’s hum, the sunset kissed.
A fragile wave reflects the glass,
Where time and tide shall never pass.
The night holds vigil, stars align,
Each moment whispers, “You are mine.”
A shadow’s dance, a fleeting thread,
The castle lives within my head.
TO DANCE ON THE STARS
“I love to dance. All my childhood, I danced with grace and elegance—classical, waltz, and Latin rhythms that set my spirit free. Even now, when I am weary, only dance can carry me to my world. Beneath the vast sky, I seek not answers but freedom: to dance, to dream, to feel that every step is a triumph over gravity.”
To dance on stars, to feel their glow,
To weave a dream where rivers flow.
To shimmer bright amidst the crowd,
A voice of grace, both strong and proud.
The world unfolds, a canvas vast,
Awaiting rhythm, sure and fast.
The winds may whisper, “no, you can’t,”
But destiny cries, “you shall enchant!”
To be as air, unbound, supreme,
To rise above life’s harsh extreme.
To love, to lead, to stand, to dare,
To dance my way through light and air.
I seek the flight, the endless chase,
The night’s embrace, the wild heart’s grace.
To break the walls that hold me tight,
To let in hope, a golden light.
My soul a fire, my words a song,
A lion’s spirit, fierce and strong.
Forever true to dreams I claim,
A queen of life, in dance’s name.
IN THE SEA OF TEARS
“I ran along the shore today, the wind tearing at my hair, the salt stinging my skin. It felt like the ocean was trying to cleanse my grief. For the first time in months, I felt a glimmer of peace. Grief is a tempest, but even in its depths, I found the strength to stay afloat. The stars above reminded me of the light we carry within.”
The sea of tears, an endless expanse,
Draws me into its mournful dance.
Beneath the waves, where silence cries,
I see no ground, no saving skies.
In this abyss, where deserts fail,
The sun’s fierce fire leaves no trail.
Alone I drift, a shadow untamed,
No longer the one by my name reclaimed.
The winds rise up – my heart burns wild,
No longer the meek, no longer the child.
Hands once soft now wield the flame,
Cleansing the scars of grief’s cruel name.
Through waves of sorrow, I reach the stars,
Breaking the chains of ancient bars.
The granite held tears, now turned to stone,
Yet my soul sings – no longer alone.
THE COLD WIND
“When the world sleeps, the poet awakens. It is in the stillness of the night that verses come alive, though they leave the heart heavier than before. There are winds that strip us bare, leaving nothing but truth in their wake. These are the winds that teach us how to stand.”
The cold wind speaks, its voice alone,
A mournful song in a hollow tone.
Its fingers reach through cloaks and veils,
Revealing truths where silence wails.
The bars of the heart, their iron rusts,
As winter devours hope encrusts.
But beneath the frost, the earth holds tight,
A seed of courage in the night.
A flower rises amidst decay,
Born from the silence of yesterday.
Its petals sing where sorrow stings,
A note resounds from hollow strings.
Though the wind howls, it cannot break
The roots that grow for life’s own sake.
It strips us bare, yet we remain,
Alive in truth, despite the pain.
THE MIRRORED WORLD
“In the mirror, I saw not just a reflection, but an infinite landscape – both beautiful and cruel. A world too vast to escape, yet too fragile to embrace.”
A mirrored world – boundless, deceptive,
We live within its depths, reflective.
And yet, a fleeting truth appears,
When joy’s rare smile dissolves our fears.
Destiny grants us dreams to claim,
Yet dreams are shadows—lost in flame.
They come, they go, like restless tides,
And in their wake, our soul abides.
Life is brief, or so it seems,
Yet endless when it cradles dreams.
Each fleeting year, a tender page,
Where youth and wonder meet with age.
Ships roar against the harbour walls,
Lions bow where twilight calls.
Beneath forgotten wealth decays,
Yet beauty lingers in its haze.
A youthful heart grows old, resigned,
The eyes grow dim, the soul confined.
Yet still, we find the strength to rise,
And greet the garden, clear of lies.
YOUR ERROR SCARRED THE SOUL
“Today, I sat on the sand, the ocean stretching infinitely before me. The waves spoke a language I longed to understand. I dipped my pen into their rhythm and wrote about diplomacy—how it mirrors the tides. It is both gentle and forceful, patient yet unyielding. A seagull hovered nearby, a silent witness to my thoughts. “The world,” I wrote, “is as fragile as this shoreline, shifting with every wave, yet enduring through centuries.””
Your error scarred the soul, you see,
And cast it adrift in a storm-torn sea.
Unready was I for the world’s vile play,
Unready to face love’s bitter fray.
The moon blurred dreams with its spectral glow,
Binding my feet where shadows grow.
You let your life drift with the breaking dawn,
And gained love’s kiss, but dreams were gone.
You knew the winds – unstable, wild,
Feared each pause like a restless child.
You ran, you fled, you let it fade,
The trust you once so lightly laid.
Desire led you, open and bare,
Yet you drowned in its embrace, unaware.
Forgotten truths in tears dissolved,
Loneliness stood where hope resolved.
A meagre world of fleeting might—
Among sharks, serpents, and piranhas’ bite.
You lost your path, consumed by vice,
Yet in your will, life still survives.
WHAT IS FREEDOM IN DARKNESS?
“The library is my refuge. Rows upon rows of books, each holding a piece of someone’s mind, someone’s struggle. I’ve been spending hours here, lost in legal texts and the occasional novel. Balance is everything. To be free is not to escape the shadows, but to walk through them unbroken. Freedom is the light we find within.”
What is freedom in darkness dire?
Perhaps a steadfast step through mire.
Perhaps the keenest eye that sees,
The beauty born of whispered pleas.
Freedom is to hold each heart,
And in return, your love impart.
To value all who dare to give,
To see the truth, to truly live.
Freedom is the distant star,
That guides the ship when storms are far.
To stand respected, firm and free,
And know that life still beats in thee.
TO FOLLOW THE HEART
“The library welcomed me like an old friend. The scent of aged books was intoxicating, and the silence was profound. I found a corner by the window, where the light filtered through ancient glass panes. My thoughts turned to… There is a quiet rebellion in following one’s heart – a defiance that reshapes the world. To listen, to feel, to leap without fear.”
To follow the heart, to pause, to hear,
Its cries of joy, its echoing fear.
To cast off chains of thought’s cruel lies,
And see the world through unveiled eyes.
The echoes fade, the light grows dim,
Yet still the heart beats firm within.
It seeks the paths that reason bars,
And dreams of dancing beneath the stars.
How frightening life’s silent scream,
To wake and find the world a dream.
Yet courage blooms when truth takes hold,
A love, unbroken, pure and bold.
THE WHISPERING GARDEN
“Sometimes I crave the scent of flowers and leaves, as if the world could never offer enough. I close my eyes and find myself in the most beautiful and peaceful garden imaginable – a mysterious haven nestled within my heart. In this garden, I discover not only blossoms but fragments of eternity, a timeless promise whispered by the earth itself.”
Oh, wondrous garden! Your whispers plead,
As sunlight strains to sow its seed.
Entwined in leaves, a tender breath,
Where life defies the grasp of death.
Oh, gentle garden! Your roots run deep,
Through hopes we dared to sow in sleep.
Your blossoms reach, yet yearn to flee,
Bound in the veil of eternity.
The skies erupt with radiant flame,
But you, my garden, remain the same.
What joy, what grief, your soil has bled,
Yet still, you bloom where angels tread.
My sweet, I’ll weave my dreams for you,
A cloth of whispers, soft and true.
For even at the edge of strife,
You hold my heart—you are my life.
ENVY, FEAR, FRAILTY, PAIN
“There are poisons that seep through the soul, silent yet all-consuming. They speak in whispers, but their echoes are deafening.”
Envy, fear, frailty, pain —
The heart beats beneath this shadowed strain.
Venomous words spill ash and fire,
The tongue, a blade, reveals its ire.
Pain tears apart the soul inside,
Subduing the living with each tide.
A single glance of jealous spite,
And the spirit falls to endless night.
A darkened cell enshrouds the brow,
Eclipsing all with solemn vow.
The sunbeam falters, lost, denied,
Where once the pathways opened wide.
Compassion stirs for hearts that bleed,
For souls ensnared by hollow greed.
Through circles they wander, bound and blind,
By burdens of their own design.
LET THEM WEEP WHO SPURNED OUR LOVE
“Let the heavens judge, for justice finds its way through storms and tears alike.”
Let them weep who spurned our love,
Let the heavens rage, the storms above.
Let lightning carve their fleeting lies,
While justice howls through endless skies.
I ride the steed of broken dreams,
Through shadowed plains and moonlit streams.
No chains can bind this heart’s decree,
For pain shall yield to destiny.
You turned and said, “I shall not stay.”
Yet now your tears betray the day.
Why linger in the halls of strife,
And haunt the echoes of my life?
Ashes of hope, embers of disdain,
You scorned my soul, but not in vain.
For from the shards, I rise anew,
Beyond the reach of what I knew.
The winds I loosed now hunt you down,
Their whispers echo, fierce and profound.
Run swift, yet know my heart is whole,
Untamed, unbroken—an eternal soul.
WHAT IS LIFE WITHOUT HONOUR OR FAILINGS?
“I have lost people I loved with all my heart—my mother, my father, my fiancé, and a few close friends. A time of mist and shadows, where loss, love, and the quiet force of endurance shaped me. Strength grows, not in ease, but in the crucible of pain, when the mind and heart ache beyond words. «Так закалялась сталь»—this is what they say about me. For to live without trial is to drift through an endless void; a hollow existence untouched by fire.”
What is life without honour or failings?
A hollow march through fleeting unveilings.
What is honour bereft of strife?
A fragile veil, untouched by life.
No steel is forged in gentle streams,
No soul awakens from shallow dreams.
It takes the storm, the blinding rain,
To carve the heart from grief and pain.
Each loss a weight, a silent stone,
Each love a light, though dimly shown.
Yet through the darkness, strength is born,
A soul remade, though bruised and torn.
What is the path without its thorns?
A barren field where nothing mourns.
What is the heart that knows no ache?
A fragile shell that dares not break.
The cliffs may call, the seas may rise,
The stars may dim in shadowed skies.
Yet still we stand, though bent and scarred,
For life’s true gift is won through hard.
I lost my loves, I lost my ground,
Yet found myself where loss abounds.
For honour blooms from what we bear,
And failing teaches how to care.
To fall is human, yet to rise—
That is where all true glory lies.
For what is life without the fight,
Without the darkness to birth the light?
The journey bends, the edges fray,
But courage leads the heart away—
Away from void, from hollow strife,
To face the fire, and call it life.
MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS
“Dear Diary,
Hundreds of pages by classical writers—Turgenev, Zola, Dumas, Tolstoy, Bradbury, and countless others—have offered me wisdom, yet no clear decisions. Thousands of experiences weigh on me, yet the answers remain veiled. I need to meditate, to let my mind find its quiet. For in the stillness, the mind whispers its loudest truths. Sometimes, silence is the only answer.”
Thoughts creaked beneath the shadowed glow,
A frozen tear began to flow.
The cricket’s tune, both sharp and frail,
Wove threads of sorrow through the veil.
The weary sky, a solemn shroud,
Held secrets whispered soft, yet loud.
Destiny lingered in quiet guise,
In midnight’s hush, where silence lies.
A tempest churned within the soul,
Its surging tide beyond control.
It swept through memories, love, and pain,
And left behind its quiet stain.
The moon, a sentinel of dreams,
Hung low to catch the heart’s extremes.
Its light, though faint, revealed the way,
Through tangled thoughts and fleeting day.
For in the night, when all seems still,
The mind resounds, its voice will fill
The empty spaces we once fled,
And truths arise where silence led.
BY THE SHORE
“You are different, as I am—blue, green, deep, light, shining, strong… but never wrong, ocean. My soul is the ocean. And only with you, with your fierce winds and boundless power, do I feel calm. The sea holds confessions no land can bear. It whispers truths, carries burdens, and drowns regrets.”
By the shore, beneath the moon’s embrace,
A bottle drifted—a timeless trace.
The waves, relentless, sang their song,
Of broken paths and where I belong.
Perhaps the hour has now begun,
To bare my truth beneath the sun.
A letter scrawled with trembling hand,
To plead, to mourn, to understand.
“Forgive me,” I wrote, “my final plea,
For sins unspoken, lost at sea.
For tarnished love, once pure and bright,
Now swallowed whole by endless night.
Forgive my restless, reckless ways,
The wounds I left, the debt that stays.
Forgive the words, sharp as the tide,
Born of despair I could not hide.
Forgive my doubt, my fleeting trust,
The dreams reduced to windswept dust.
Forgive the paths I walked in gloom,
The bridges burned, the seeds of doom.
Forgive the years that passed in haze,
The shadowed nights, the empty days.
And yet, forgive me not, if you cannot,
For I am lost—a soul forgot.”
I sealed the note with trembling breath,
And cast it to the waves of death.
The ocean claimed it, pulled it deep,
To cradle truths I could not keep.
Yet in the stillness, hope remained,
A fragile thread, though faint, sustained.
That somewhere, far beyond this shore,
Life waits, renewed, forevermore.
THE BULLET FLEW TWICE OVER
“I love reading the news, but it must be true—something rare in a world where truth is elusive. What does truth mean? Does it have boundaries? Can it exist always, yet shift in different realities? For lawyers, truth is a weapon and a shield, wielded in the arena of reason and evidence. But truth, in its rawest form, is neither kind nor forgiving. The weight of violence lingers long after the shot is fired, staining the soul with echoes of what cannot be undone.”
The bullet flew twice, breaking the skies,
Its path unseen by blinded eyes.
A rival fell where silence reigned,
While shadows deepened, truth remained.
“You sought the stars, the fated lore,
Yet darkness claimed you evermore.
Through fields of rage, through endless pain,
You chased the heavens but found disdain.”
The bullet’s song, a mournful sound,
Its echoes haunt the hollowed ground.
A whisper crawls through bloodied air,
Who bears the blame? Who dares declare?
A single voice, a trembling cry,
“Yes, I – yes, I, and none but I.”
The bridges burn, the rivers dry,
Yet no redemption meets the eye.
What is the cost of justice’ name?
A fleeting truth, a lasting shame.
The Pegasus rides through storms of wrath,
But leaves no light along its path.
The bullet flew twice, and still it flies,
Through fractured hearts, through silent skies.
For truth may burn, or truth may heal,
Yet its wounds remain, forever real.
SHE SAT BY THE WINDOW
“Diary, … Grief has a voice that no one hears, yet its whispers linger in the depths of our eyes.”
She sat by the window, serene yet pained,
Her silken gown with moonlight stained.
A thread unraveled, caught mid-air,
As shadows wove through her auburn hair.
Her sapphire gaze, deep and wide,
Held secrets only stars confide.
A single tear refused to fall,
A silent sentinel through it all.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, soft and clear,
“To the winds that carry my lingering fear.
Forgive the sorrow I did not choose,
Forgive the hope I dared to lose.
For in the depths of night, I grieve,
A thousand truths I cannot weave.
I mourn not him, but dreams betrayed,
A fragile life that could not stay.
I sought his voice, his steady hand,
But he walks now in another land.
Was it my heart, too proud, too still,
That let the echoes break my will?
Oh heavens, vast, unyielding, cold,
Do you mock my tears with tales untold?
Do you scatter dreams like brittle glass,
Leaving splinters where love might pass?
I wear no shame, though grief is mine,
It shapes my soul, its aching shrine.
I do not weep for what is gone,
But for the silence, now withdrawn.
For his absence carves a sacred space,
A quiet, hallowed, timeless grace.
No blame, no anger, no regret,
But a love unspoken, quietly met.”
The dawn crept in with gentle light,
Its golden hues dispelling night.
And though her sorrow did not fade,
Her spirit stood, unbent, unfrayed.
For honour lies in bearing pain,
With dignity that does not wane.
And through her tears, the world could see,
The strength of her eternity.
YOU CAME TO ME IN THE DAWN
“Dreams speak the language of the soul, and sometimes, their voices call us to truths we dare not face…”
You came to me in the dawn of light,
A phantom, weaving through the night.
A tender fire, a fleeting flame,
I wished to hold you, call your name.
Yet you, an ember, distant, dim,
Slipped through the folds of my fragile whim.
In the haze of sleep, your visage stayed,
A bittersweet ghost, a love betrayed.
If only, I thought, your heart were real,
If only you knew the depth I feel.
Yet dreams, deceitful, weave their guise,
And I awake to an empty sky.
Find me not in fleeting thought,
But in the truths your heart has sought.
Find me where the light does break,
Where sorrow bends but does not quake.
Find me, though shadows cloud the way,
And cradle me through night to day.
Find me, and I shall find you too,
Forever bound, our love renewed.
WHAT IS FREEDOM?
“Freedom is not a gift bestowed by the world; it is the courage to seek truth when all else is veiled.”
What is freedom in eternal night?
A steady step amidst the blight.
A steadfast heart that dares to see,
The vast expanse of destiny.
To hold the love of those who care,
And, in return, to bravely share.
To cherish self, to stand alone,
To weave your dreams into the known.
Freedom breathes where truth is found,
Amidst the silence, its call resounds.
It lives within, a guiding flame,
A beacon, fierce, that none can tame.
Through days of darkness, cold and drear,
Freedom whispers, steady, clear:
“Rise, for you are more than these—
The storms, the tides, the bending seas.”
FOLLOW YOUR HEART
“The heart knows the roads the mind cannot traverse. To follow it is to walk with faith through the shadows.”
Follow your heart; let it softly sing,
Through joy’s ascent and sorrow’s sting.
It whispers truths no mind can see,
A melody of what shall be.
Through silent halls where shadows fall,
It leads, unyielding, past the wall.
Though reason balks, though fear may bind,
The heart persists, steadfast, aligned.
It falters not through doubt’s parade,
Nor wearies of the trials laid.
It weaves its course through darkest woe,
And in its faith, new gardens grow.
Follow your heart; it is your star,
A guiding light, both near and far.
It carries you through boundless strife,
The compass of your fleeting life.
HE FOUND HIS DULCINEA
“He saw her not as she was, but as his heart willed her to be—a vision of all he cherished and all he dreamed.”
He found his Dulcinea fair,
Her gentle grace beyond compare.
In her, he saw a world divine,
A truth that mirrored his own design.
But I have yet to find your gaze,
To walk with you through twilight’s haze.
He claimed his muse with heart alight,
Yet I am adrift in endless night.
Oh, may my smile one day reveal,
A love as pure, a dream as real.
May I, too, find a heart so true,
To weave my days in gold and blue.
CAUGHT BETWEEN WALLS
“Where am I? Should I even write in your pages, my diary? I need to be honest with someone, but perhaps only with myself. I am caught between walls—it’s chess, where I am the prisoner of inquisitors. Yet, in the end, it is all in my mind. Kasparov defeated the computer, Zeland found the reality of Transurfing, Napoleon believed in his vision. Who am I, and where should I go? Are there no doors, or are these just doors I no longer need? What stops me from breaking this reality and building my own? I have that strength—I do not need the confines of others’ rules. But do you?”
Between shadows and corridors, the past whispers its riddles.
How much capricious folly hides in love, unseen?
Caught between these walls, where time turns back its lean.
Once again, I feel the ache, though not for you—
No, not for you—but for the gaze that pierces through.
My heart, oh, why must it tread the scaffold so vain?
Why cast the hours away, unwisely spent, in pain?
I recall the fissures of parting’s cruel embrace,
A bitter arrow through memory’s fragile trace.
Oppressive halls, where echoes wail and weep,
Cold flickers of candlelight my solace keep.
Through boughs of hollow souls, a shadow’s brand,
The wound of madness carves the mind’s command.
I walk these walls, a prisoner to thought,
A captive of battles that freedom forgot.
Yet still, in the silence, a spark does remain,
A vision of worlds unbound by chains.
You linger with me in the midnight’s depth,
You hold me fast from sorrow’s fatal step.
And though the lies and dreams decay to dust,
To you, my door stays open, as it must.
For beyond these walls, a world may thrive,
Where dreams unfettered take to the skies.
I am not bound by what others decree;
These walls are my making, and I hold the key.
ODE TO PETERSBURG
“Nothing compares to you. There is no other city like you, Petersburg. Peter the Great built you in 1703, but before that, you were already a place of great memory and history. You are far older than your stone façades suggest. My mother adored books about the construction of Saint Isaac’s Cathedral. She was a wise and well-read woman, and she often spoke of Montferrand’s genius. Every building in Petersburg speaks—what do you hear?”
I.
Beneath your mists, my soul finds its tether;
In your streets, I lose myself forever.
Oh, Petersburg, my confession is yours,
Your northern airs gnaw my soul with frost’s claws.
Yet in your labyrinths, my heart is sealed,
A captive to your haunting and eternal fields.
You and he—yes, both surround me still,
With winds that chill and passions that thrill.
Through foggy breath and brackish tides,
You weave your mystic spell that never dies.
Your canals stir dreams, Dostoevsky’s despair,
Gogol’s madness still floats in the air.
Pushkin’s grace walks through your stormy night,
While golden spires gleam with eternal light.
No sun can break your iron sky,
Yet twilight domes in splendour lie.
Your beauty binds, your whispers sting,
A phantom’s echo, a raven’s wing.
And in your clutches, I am bent,
An unyielding heart, a soul’s lament.
Your madness fuels my every breath,
Your brilliance guards me against regret.
II.
The stones beneath my feet hold the weight of countless secrets.
I wander your alleys, your shadowed bends,
Crossing roads, seeking where the spirit mends.
The rogue’s path is cloaked, unclear,
Its purpose doused in fire and fear.
Passions surge, unfit, unkind,
Their flame ignites my restless mind.
A gilded cage creaks in the stillness of dreams,
Where forgotten legends stitch their seams.
Thoughts leap like squirrels on ancient boughs,
Like dolphins piercing ocean’s vows.
In my veins, the tales of warriors glide,
Burning brighter than tides of time.
Petersburg sprawls in tempest’s wail,
Its soul alive, its heart so frail.
Yet through its gloom, its endless night,
I search for clarity, for guiding light.
III.
You are my cradle and my abyss.
Oh, Petersburg, my eternal throne,
Veiled in beauty, to me you have shown—
That from the swamp you rose with pride,
Your copper steeds through mists abide.
The Bronze Horseman’s stern gaze holds fast,
Guarding your splendour, from future to past.
You—the keeper of restless dreams untold,
A realm of fire, of frost, of gold.
Forgotten by none, you shape our fate,
Where spirits rise and storms abate.
I breathe your mist, your briny air,
And find my solace lingering there.
Your rains of grey, your ceaseless weep,
Where madness and prayers their secrets keep.
You are the moment, the fleeting spark,
A city of light, of shade, of dark.
IV.
When the night falls silent, the city dreams on.
Soft slides the drop, the night retreats,
The owl’s call echoes through empty streets.
The city’s pulse beneath shadows keeps,
A thousand whispers the darkness reaps.
The bronze sentinel, cold and stern,
Watches dreams as they twist and churn.
A silent shepherd of timeless lore,
Guarding legends for evermore.
Who are you, keeper of shadow and stone?
What stories linger, what deeds atone?
Your storms have sculpted iron and gold,
Your nights a canvas, a tale untold.
V.
In you, I was born; in you, I found myself.
What do I see in you, my beloved Petersburg?
The dream of my youth, a distant mirth.
Your spires rise where shadows merge,
Your alleys weave through time and earth.
Your courtyards cradle whispers of rain,
Where love and loss leave their fleeting stain.
The sigh of trees in gardens bare,
The cries of gulls fill the frozen air.
Through the mist of your ancient ways,
I walk in silence, lost in a daze.
Your bridges arch like endless dreams,
Your rivers hum with eternal streams.
What secrets sleep in your stone embrace?
What truths lie buried in your grace?
I see the years, the endless fight,
To claim your fire, to hold your light.
You are the prism of my soul’s despair,
A city of beauty beyond compare.
Forever will your spirit endure,
My Petersburg, both fierce and pure.
VI.
What do I behold in you, my dearest Petersburg?
In you, I was born and swiftly raised.
Through phantom doors, I love you still,
As I see the glow from your cathedral spires.
In you lies my dream, concealed for years,
In you, my spirit of love, and the sorrow it bears.
Now, for all eternity, I glimpse your facets,
As you open doors I once believed sealed.
What whispers in the hush of your courtyard wells?
What lingers in the rustling leaves of your gardens,
Or the droplets clinging to the rain-drenched panes?
A tear has hidden itself in your tranquil waters,
And no stranger dared disturb the cry of gulls.
In a feverish trance, I refused to close my eyes,
Staring at your bridges and lanterns, silent until dawn.