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“October creeps into the room through faint grey light that stopped dancing on the windowsill since July left. Being haunted by silence makes the air grow weary and faintly colder. I hear the noise of people walking in solitude, thinking to themselves about others— sitting alone in between their steps. Company of ghosts on lonely eves, threading through the rustling of leaves. I can write down what haunts me, yet I cannot read the ones who do. October.”

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“At a certain point, you no longer hope; you just keep on existing. One day at a time, for the rest of your life. And that feeling is not shallow but runs deep— deeper than any happiness or love could ever run. A vein is a mere line poets like me used to write on and a lifeline where sailors swim towards at night. If we keep on writing and giving, we grow on that existing line with millions of words that save hope - and thus give existence and life.”

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“COLOURS IN THE MIRROR One day my pride will outlive myself and whatever remains of its colours will be remembered by others - for I was always my true self. I live too little for things that make me dream & care too much for fears that sleep in between the fine lines of my weary mind - so write me gentle words, for it may break. My diversity should not be a mistake but a celebration of identity & guiding light to others who ache to leave the numbness of »pretending-to-be«. We are not broken mirrors that hurt the world by showing our true reflection; we are merely hearts used to rejection - yet, their words will only blur but not break our shine.”

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“CROSSROAD Lights flicker above the crossroad shining in green now and then for people who won't cross and red for others - which won't stop; The dull grey splits the city in pieces of lines and corners, sometimes outshined by heavy rain and flooded glimpses of chaos; Broken glass upon crimson roads empty silence and nothing to say - while the city sleeps on and will awake, eventually.”

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“PIECES OF LIGHT I see the art of each heart reflecting the mirror that the world put it in front of - for so long that the lines so once so clear became hate for everything we see - blurring out the real; Seeing a thousand lights reflecting one's own means nothing anymore, now that we live by the one offered by the world; The price of being a small part of everyone's standard is being praised so, we may break into one single piece.”

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“THE MEADOWS OF MEDEA 'The meadows lay weeping with tears like an emerald's gleam; while every nightingale is seeking the shelter of its only willow's green. And silently, my step falls on leaves that carry me much further than I'd dream; for willows and thoughts are fading slowly while everything eternal is not seen - and yet they keep so many of us in good company - for some can not be on their own, nor can they be free. So I found peace, the one eternal each one seeks and so I left my soul for emerald's gleam; while the meadows still lay weeping with grief over my grave so quietly for it lays beneath the shadow of its only willow's green.”

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“MARBLE GRAVES The silver moon stands silent between two cypresses - its light leaning against the walls of the old palazzo that lays in ruin. Hidden behind olive groves lays the tomb of forgotten men and unsung heroes. Their souls found peace within the Allgrove's of singing cicadas and rustling long grass. The marble is heavy and their graves cool and dark - deep is their sleep eternal their demise. The moon is slowly covered by a shroud of clouds, cypresses now lay in darkness - silence.”

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“OUR OLYMP At this altitude of wavering faith and dying stars our love could not stand a chance; it disappears slowly within my rhymes sky. Fading along the pale darkness like a path of crumbling anecdotes on old crumpled philosophers' notes. I can not see the moon anymore - neither I can imagine the place where it should rest tonight in the sky of ours, where it used to be so bright. The Gods themselves dare not make a home at this height of our hearts, for even the immortals would refuse to hold sacred a place so high. Even our wishes refuse to fall at the mountains feet, still climbing, trembling, and slowly loosing - defeat.”

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“SAN GIMIGNANO The towers align the hills like crowns of heavy stones; Empty are the dreams of the ones that built them long ago. The thirst for power still stands frozen in its tracks - the only witnesses of it stand high against the silver sky. The distance gets smaller, and the towers become higher. So many have fallen, laying their family's name to rest, in gentle forgetfulness.”

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“A POET'S HOMAGE TO FLORENCE What heart dares to look upon a city so golden and is not moved to write a single line? Whose soul can bear such beauty and not praise it with all its words? May there be poets without a page left, artists with no colour to give a memory of you; and even lovers who refuse to burn? My love, your likeness is like marble that makes the altar of paradise.”

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“PERSEPHONE (the spring ballade) Every heart is blooming upon a field of doubt and the flowers autumn reaps - he knows every name about. They grow never in line, although always in the shape of each soul of every lonesome doubt. So whenever I wander along my sorrow's path the horizon behind me glows crimson with all the broken hearts it carries on. A thought yet not dreamt is a love unplanted by hands of grieve - For each who does not bloom by now is long lost in summer's eyes, For autumn reaps but does not give a single tear to water the ground in which he steers sometimes so aimlessly.”

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“3 A.M. SAINTS It is 3 a.m. again and you are showing me all of your sins by holding up your scars to the starless sky. Painting the entire universe with gold and clothing my velvet heart in purple - we become saints within those unholy hours close to dawn. Still, the world is spinning - even though it feels a little slower now - while the silence carries us away into the next day.”

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“QUIET WRITING Quiet does not mean that we have nothing to say, or that we leak the power of speech - we rise up and tell our truths even if it feels like people don't like it the least; Writing is our means to have something to tell when we lost our voice suddenly we still stand behind our truths even if it feels like people won't like it. Beautifully are the quiet lines written with thunder and silent boldness - for we can have a revolution inside the pages of nowadays.”

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“EDINBURGH Sombre echoes that mark the dawning that is greying on the hills; the steep streets still wet from rain the small buildings look emptier with each day passing on; thoughts are done passing rounds - counting circles inside my head. pale faces of familiar strangers crossing me on the way back to a place that used to feel like home - falling back in time.”

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“BLOOMING SCARS Those flowers dance around vour marble bust like they were fearing October's kiss - gently they laugh and fall asleep on vour stone veins and cold lips. For they love their names written upon your chest in gold for your heart may be broken, yet it is searching for something untold. They do not know that silver mends the scars that the years formed and the cracks on your skin the sun caused - so silent, still, and weary are the blossoms with whom my love for you is betrothed.”

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“AMBER HEART'S Amber chases the night sky like the stars became fire and gold - and the moon is falling ever closer to the sun he loves so much; So there is not much pain with the world to share, yet we begin to doubt our love and forget our hearts need care. Still, we wish upon the stars to fall faster in love than we did out, so we won't try and pull back for broken hearts are heavy and hard to catch. So while the constellations fade and our souls disappear in their entanglement we hope to learn what it means to truly live again the least.”

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“THE ART OF EVERYONE And autumn died long before the sun touched the last leaf; for death forgets every winter for as long as summer blossoms for itself; For the art of everyone is close to the idea and dwells in thoughts. For every thought rises in the morning - and every beginning is the closest to us in the end, and eventually takes a lifetime to complete itself.”

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“The meadows lay weeping with tears like an emeralds gleam; while every nightingale is seeking the shelter of its only willow's green. - And silently, my step falls on leaves that carry me much further than I'd dream; for willows and thoughts are fading slowly while everything eternal is not seen and yet they keep so many of us in good company for some can not be on their own, nor can they be free. - So I found peace, the one eternal each one seeks and so I left my soul for emerald's gleam; while the meadow still lays weeping with grief over my grave so quietly for it lays beneath the shadow of its only willow's green.”

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“Hues of pale green, on delicate olive branches the soft rustling of somberness along the fields of gold that lay themselves to gentle rest after another long summer. I have nothing to bury under them except my own heart -that is my soul's greatest regret, once my lines begin to fill in autumn, under the velvet gloom of shortening days. The admiration of the Florentine sun had doomed my words to become eventually a remembrance once September falls in October's pale hands. I shall have nothing to grieve for once the winter arrives, coming over the distant hills and laying bare the orchards along his way. I doomed them to become ruins by overthinking, hoping - at least once too often - for change; So, let it be then. I will mourn my mere passion for life in the presence of death - though my art may be eternal.”

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