excerpt

T-Shirt
Wonder do people die of love? And if “yes” do they go to hell where the devils look like you? I wish I could die this very moment. Now!
Just to meet you; to hear your voice whisper my punishment in my ear.
In fact my life is a hell without you…as it was when we were together.
And since I’ve died of love, then to hell, my love, as long as you will be there too.
I wear your t-shirt. The one you left behind when you gathered your cloths because it was unwashed. And when it was cleaned you weren’t here anymore.
It’s left behind, with so other, older t-shirts that keep me company at night, they wrap and warm up my body.
It was difficult for me to explain to the girl who ironed them that they were mine, although bigger size and she shouldn’t put them away in your drawer.
These t-shirts are my property.
Each of them is sewed together with a piece of my soul.
They the “lessons” I have paid for the life I have lived up to now.
When we used to sleep, you were my clot. I needed wear nothing else.
Now, I wear the t-shirts, I wrap myself in my comforter and sleep in my bed diagonally.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562946

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763807

He’s gone, the one you, oh
Romiosini had on the throne
higher than all palaces the king
of kings higher than all kings
the Tower raised on top of
Euphrates is tumbled
the crown of Romiosini and
the reverent moon glow.
The Square Tower with
its eight corners is tumbled
Tower with embrasures
Tower full of windows
that was aimed at Babylon
that was gazing at Syria
Tower with snow that couldn’t
melt by the faraway light.
Tauris, Antitauris and Libanese
bowed in front of it and
the Caliphs of Baghdad and
Tarcea with its castles…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D3LP7NW6

VI
The gullible soft memory of the clock
like the sweetness of the Kore’s puberty
and the blue breeze’s soft caressing
recreate dreams of times bygone
with their crossroads immersed in light
when suddenly the calmness of the dream
turns into the apocalyptic enormity
of a wave engulfing singing stars
or the nebula’s untouched vulva.
Before the gullible clock dances
on the contour of a flower petal
the monk crafts an ache and
the slender palm trees sway
until the anger of the elements
emerges catapulting fireballs
of scorch out of the fiery pit.
Anger of the elements unravels its
destruction, hurling the burning curse
from the depths of the earth
to the top of the sky,
to the crocuses, snow breath or
the osprey’s clasping talons
and to this hymn’s consonance.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186583