Category Archives: Accents

Eastern Lover

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

I dig deep into the past,
a time when we held
on to our struggles. Back then
shepherds carried their flutes,
literature censured false promises,
and the only warriors were idealists.

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,
befriending rebels and lovers,
of leading the herd to the river.


Our Beloved Bird

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,
recall our origins.

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

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


I’ll Celebrate Twice

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.


Innocent Flirt

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 changing,
where a confused struggle is endured,
and innocence ruptured.

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 bleeding occurs
and handicap is a given
to those at the bottom.

Let’s farm for once, build as many exits
as we can, for dreams are both bound
and blurred.

The finish line is rarely in sight.
Our birth marks the first light.


The Tree and I

I talk with the tree,
with tears I wash its leaves,
and I feel its moving roots:
my grieving.

Standing alongside
a forgotten city,
the tree travels
through seasons.

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 long
cold loneliness,
and collect stories.

We are home to travelers,
and occasional lovers.

We collect secrets
and offer silent


In My Absence

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

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

I will leave my silence behind
for you to share.

My farm, where my grave
will be, is yours to move into.
You can water trees, invite back
the long nights, and ride the horses
in the open air.