I listen to the East and become unsettled.
A sad ire overtakes me. The wide black eyes
of Eastern women become home and exile.

I dig deep into the past, a time when we held
onto our struggles, rose to the challenge.
Back then shepherds carried bread and flutes,

literature censured false promises,
and idealists were the only warriors.
For the migrated birds, nostalgia is an escape.

I choose to be hopeful and listen to music
in my backroads travels. I dream of reinventing self,
befriend lovers and sunbath in secluded backyards

When you fly, you make the sky happy.
You entertain us with your songs.

When you land, you give earth a new perspective.
You keep us company, ponder our origins.

When you dive, the water may be cold,
and the depths strange.

Your dives make you stronger, and make us wonder
about the secrets of the undersea.

Alongside ghosts
I walk the alley of murder.

On the magazine cover my friend was dead.
But I will deny the killers his burial.

I will walk with him
across the bridge of light and feel
the warmth of our tears
escaping our exhausted eyelids.

Our trees will shade their walls
and our rivers will clean their hands.

I will celebrate
his birth and plant his
favorite orchids.
I’ll celebrate twice:
his birth and his death.

As I grieve, the rivers mourn the shooting stars
and the trees drop their leaves.

She reached the counter wearing a soft smile,
paving the path to unscripted conversation,
evoking music.

Her graceful gestures invited
admiration for the blue of her eyes
and her scarf.

Her innocent flirt awoke
long-forgotten promises,
evoking adventures — snowflakes dancing
with desire on a breezy afternoon.

A hungry poet intercepted
an unguarded glance
from a shining face.

Unwilling and not knowing
that his creative journey
might answer a thirst
for uncooperative words.

A glance and a hungry poet
wishes to belong to a time when
feelings can be forever frozen.

To ease the suffering,
once again
he raises his pen!

Chasing origins is a game
where rules keep on changing,

where I endure a confused struggle,
and rupture innocence.

Excuses no longer shadow the moment,
knowing joy is in the unexpressed.

I go back to the premise
I long for but misunderstand.

For those at the top hemorrhage is a risk,
at the bottom we are accustomed to handicap.

Let’s farm for once,
build as many exits as we can,

for dreams are bound and blurred.
The finish line is rarely in sight.

At birth we submerge in the first light.

Our pastime is shaped by our past.
One does not think of collecting seashells
when throughout their childhood
they went to sleep hungry.

Standing alongside a forgotten city,
trees travel through seasons.

I talk to a tree; with tears I wash its leaves,
and I feel its moving roots— extensions of grief.

The tree and I extend our shades
and entertain those who come near.

We absorb the sun’s rays, gather soil,
share the night’s loneliness, and collect stories.

We are home to travelers, occasional lovers.
We collect secrets and offer understanding.

In my absence, don’t apologize on my behalf.
The sun won’t rise late, and I won’t be missed.

The world will continue to run,
and the sea will forget my long hours at its shore.

I leave behind my silence for you to share.
My farm, the site of my grave, will be yours.

Water trees, invite back the long nights,
and ride the horses in the open air.