It’s all about the fortress that we build
To hide ourselves in dark rooms made of stone;
With many words the emptiness is filled
And yellowed books make us feel less alone.  

It’s all about how well we get to lie
That words are used to make us understand,
But spoken words are simply said, then fly
And written words are letters on the sand. 

It’s all about just talking to ourselves
When midnight turns another day in past;
The wall clock stops its beat after the twelfth,
Then liquid words in shapes of thoughts are cast.  

It’s all about the silence that we feel
Not when we are alone, but when we’re not.
It seems that among us there is a seal –
No matter what we do, it remains shut.




A mercenary in a foreign land,
Driven by gold, by power and by lust –
Writing his testimonies on sand,
Drawing his victories on dust. 

Having no soul, no thought and no regret,
No memory, no feeling and no past;
Paying attention to no threat,
Being frightened of no blast. 

In the mad wind his purple flags unfold,
Scraping the bleeding sunset, the black cloud.
It’s here and now, die or be bold,
Spit all your anger, shout it loud. 

Kill and forget; hold, love and leave;
Never look back, just keep it straight;
Feel no remorse when you deceive;
Trust only in yourself, and not in fate.
Spending my days with my ideal
And with my rule, my law, and with my verse,
I stray myself from what is real.
I wish I were like him – I’m his reverse.



I sit face to face to Death
Wait for the light that does not come
Old letters bleed their last breath
Quills full of dust are blunt and numb.

From time to time a vague pale thought
That goes beyond what is, what’s not;
The spectres of the things I’ve sought
Shine brightly for a blink, then rot
Melting the words in a black scum.

The empty page that lay ahead
Was filled with signs that none can read;
The white nights all their shadows bled
The inky days their darkness bleed.
One day you’ll read this and you’ll laugh
Amuse yourself with this mad place
Which cuts the emptiness in half.
With Death I’m sitting face to face. 



Send to hell the inner peace
And set free the inner fire,
Let its burning to inspire
You creating without cease.  

 Send to hell detachment, serenity, love, tenderness, even beauty.
Indulging in them makes you weak and soft, melts down your sword.
Creation is drama, crisis, tension, violence, it is fundamentally restless, hectic, worried about everything that exists and everything that doesn’t.
Release all the inner turmoil, conflicts, anger, madness.
Live on the edge, feel the deep tragedy of the wounded world, die and resurrect and die again, and again come back to life.
Generate, degenerate, regenerate yourself…

Boring rhetoric words
That can’t convince anymore;
All has been said before,
Even true feelings seem absurd. 

There’s no way of finding new
Ways of expressing ourselves.
Tired books on dusty shelves
Now are void of any clue. 

Be aware of this truth.
You can write, but do not claim
Glory, recognition, fame.
You create only for you.




A word once said could never be taken back.
I am hanging on words, they could be everything, the ultimate reality,
but they could also mean nothing.
A spoken word could never be taken back, it flies away into the void.
Don’t fool yourself with the illusion of understanding, there’s no such thing.
Neither you, nor the other could ever keep the word from flying away.
A written word is a greater hoax, you write it down in loneliness,
and for whom do you write it, except for yourself?
Who else will ever have the time to read your lonely words?
Stop hanging on words, they have no meaning.




The day became an endless night;
The night – a never-ending day…
Shadows unfurling over light
Wrapped our bodies made of clay.

Above us – nine starless skies,
Inside us – two empty souls.
I cannot look into your eyes
Since they are just two big black holes. 

Hidden thoughts and not a word,
Just your breath over my face.
A silence like I’ve never heard
Is told by your close embrace. 

I’m here only for a heart beat;
Soon I’ll be far away again.
Behind me, a tousled bed sheet
Will be all that will remain.