I listen to the East and grow uneasy.
A bitter sadness overtakes me.

The wide dark eyes of Eastern women
become both home and exile.

I dig into the past, a time when we held
our struggles tightly and rose to them.

Then shepherds carried bread and flutes,
literature exposed empty promises,

and idealists were the only warriors.
For migrating birds, nostalgia is a refuge.

I choose hope and listen to music
along forgotten roads.

I dream of reinventing myself, befriending
lovers, and sunbathing in secluded backyards.

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

When you land, you grant the earth a new perspective.
You keep us company, reflecting on where we come from.

When you dive, the water can be cold,
and the depths are unfamiliar.
Your dives give you strength
and leave us wondering
about the secrets beneath the sea.

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 past shapes our pastime.

One does not think of collecting seashells 

when, throughout their childhood,

they went to bed hungry.

Standing alongside a forgotten city,
trees travel through seasons.

I talk to a tree; my tears 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.