A maze.
The heat,
The jungle.

A maze.
Lost thoughts,
Lost memories.
Found sorrows,
Found memories.

A maze.
Lost, Lost,
And never seen.
My own:
This labyrinth of memories.
This hunger,
And a fear for evermore.


By a form, a shape,
A voice.
What are you?
Yes, you
Your color:
This pale melancholy
And these calls
Your white sounds
Of sorrow, of joy
Of a being.
My ruin, my future
Haunted now
Where are you?
You are nowhere
But a feeling.
What happens now?
Your presence,
Your breath
The spells
And your gravity
Your strentgh,
Your fragility.
What –
What are you?
Always you


We walk, stroll or run
Though we can only witness
That forest around us
Jungle of events
Of animals and plants
And us

Ahead we see fields,
Flowers and butterflies
Sunrays through the leaves

Sometimes :
Sunset and warm colors
Red for passion
Yellow for compassion

We see panthers and deadly snakes
We hear them in the bushes
Fog settles in

Too many times
The darkness, howls and loneliness
The paths ahead

Only sometimes:
We know

12 Neon Signs

You walk and you pass –
Grey days, bright days,
Clubs, stores,
Misty bars and ugly cars.

That street
That street

You run –
You escape:
The pressure, the density –
The taste, an addiction.

One street
One street

The lights and their colors,
Tacit, invisibly –
They move you,
They control you.
You are the light,
You are the street,
Your taste –
Yes you sweet light,
Where are you?

The streets
The streets…

Fabulous Mistakes

Hey boy,
Hey girl!
Have no worries
And have no fears,
For all the reveries
And for all the tears;
We all make mistakes,
We fear headaches,
There are dreams,
Like sunbeams.

Hey you,
Hey me!
Mistakes, yes!
Fabulous paress,
Of gone days
And he says,
Like I say:
“O sunny day!
I love your mistakes,
They are
And fabulous,


That special moment,
When it clicks,
Or enticement,
One is adrift,
One is alone.

In a snap:
Without attach,
Freedom at last!
Relieved, refreshed,
But now what comes?

These times of being lost,
The anticipation, the adventure!
Adrift and adrift only,
We forget the coast,
Of being against nature,
Attached and moored only.

No more direction,
Only passion,
We are free!
No steering,
No command, no fee,
Adrift only, we are free.


Where are they,
the surrealists,
who imagine and invent
new worlds and new frontiers,
and who tell us
how unreal is our reality?

Who are they,
those artists,
creators who enchant
worlds and atmospheres,
so vivid to us,
so fresh and often so crazy?

What are they,
poets and escapists
of times past and present?
And among their peers
I dream to be, cautious,
but so refreshed and away from reality.


Alone, Alone! In a sea of men;¹
Of ghosts, and of shades, in a sea of grey;
They push me around,
And I avoid them,
Chased, i am a prey,
They hunt, and make no sound.

Alone, perhaps, in a sea of sweet women,
Nymphs, mermaids, and amazones,
I am lost!
Avoiding their trap and its poison,
They haunt me, touch my bones,
And i wonder: are they too, ghosts?

The seas rise and again rise,
The port escapes me,
I cannot see it, cannot find it,
There are no hopes that i can see,
No place and no time I find so sweet.

Where to go,
Where is the end?
Where is home?
And how to know?

Of fog and of smoke,
The world goes,
Not giving, not answering,
And always, I am in shock.

Alone, alone,
In a sea of ghosts,
The sun rises,
And my soul still holds.

¹ First verse after Pamela Colman Smith‘s poem carrying the same title ‘Alone’  (more info about her here, and the actual poem can be found here).

Time, time, time

I have a crazy,
crazy need for time.¹

Nothing more predictable,
more intoxicating
and asphyxiating.

Nothing more democratic,
more pervasive
and mechanic.

Rock bands sung of time,
Atmos clocks celebrate it –
Technology beats it,
a little more everyday,
and yet!
Yet, it escapes,
me, you,
and me again.

I can’t move it,
rewind it,
scan it,
expand it or
renew it.

It works against me,
my ambitions,
my dreams.
A new fixation,
a perfect illusion,
but never,
time is within reach.

No understanding,
He is relentless.
Not pretending,
He is perfectness.

More, more, more,
of the same thing,
of you,
of seconds,
of days,
is what I need.

But do you exist?
Do we invent you,
hate you,
admire you?
Elusive muse,
we measure you
while you laugh,
as you know,
we do not measure
performance, moon phases,
hours and quartz vibrations.
This is the perfect illusion,
we measure,
not your passage,
but the countdown
to our demise.

¹ first stanza (and the poem’s form) after Pablo Neruda‘s wonderful “Ode to Common Things” (this illustrated collection of the Odes is a must for Neruda’s enthusiasts, along its sibling)