Young Woman


I am a young woman in a golden field.
I caress plants with my fingertips.
I stare directly at the sun,
I like that it gives me freckles.

I sing loudly with birds,
Walk barefoot on the grass,
Wander aimlessly, pick fruit from trees,
Dip fingers in cold streams.

I bite into sweet pomegranate,
I don’t mind red stains on my clothes.
I swim for fun, float and drift when I’m tired,
My ears immersed in water, I listen to its melodies.

I let the sun tan my skin,
And the sand burn my toes,
When I stand under a shower stream,
My worries travel away over my skin.

I pretend to be a ballerina,
Dance on tip-toes,
Make crowns of daisies,
Let afternoons drift with clouds.

I feel entitled to chocolate,
And sweet scented perfumes,
It isn’t just my dress that’s floral,
It’s also my spirit.

I am a young woman in a golden field.
I caress plants with my fingertips.
I stare directly at the sun,
I like that it gives me freckles.



Tries the night skies in fervor and fury against both the knowns and unknowns,
against fears and crazes of the heart– what they may be like.

Sometimes emotions sprint and so do their thoughts,
and their sad but energetic endings
seem very much like beginnings.
Play life like a violin, see how it played you as well.
But it doesn’t remain in fury for long,
it settles down into a calm wind,
well, before it thunders again.
It doesn’t like to stay the same.

I chased another and met myself,
was brought to tears and laughed as well,
And led and became led, and found the
lost and found room of an old school,
or an old train station where I sought my heart.
But it was nowhere to be found.
I did find some relics there,
like old but new thoughts that arrive
when they are least expected.

I let my mind race, only because resting it later
feels much deserved and worthwhile.
But perhaps the funniest thing ever,
is that I understand more when I’m asleep than when I’m awake.
That thinking, is a different type of thinking.
It takes you to new places.
And the most vulnerable you will ever feel,
is that brief moment before you dive into sleep,
where undertaking this journey alone,
seems ridiculous and frightening.
And sometimes one just has to imagine being surrounded,
held and comforted in order to let go,
into a world of dreams where anything is possible,
yet nothing is doable, and even less remembered.

Shall we rest our spirits for one night?
Why not? How long do you think we have?
I will not know when this beginning,
arrives at an end, or even, what I did with it.
It is odd that whatever one clings to,
must eventually be let go of, and it never
really becomes apparent how much one has clung,
until it’s time to tear one into half.
And that pain, one never gets used to it,
no matter how many times it is mended, re-attached, and re-torn.

I am not as strong as I would like to be.
I am trying not to be ashamed of that.
Philosophers advise one to be fragile,
though being weak and fragile requires a strength of its own.
I don’t mind being fragile. Well I do, but I’ll get over that.
I think magic comes in the same box as pain,
and if you want one, you must also have the other.
As sharp and decisive the notes of this song are in parts,
they are also gentle, welcoming and uplifting in others.
And I do know that there is a part of each one of us,
that never stops loving or stops hoping,
regardless of how much we wish it to be otherwise.

Defining Love

Half-way between being lost and submission,
Half-way between certainty and confusion.
Half-way between happiness and despair,
Solace and nervousness; flight and rest.
The most beautiful emotion in all of the universe,
And the deepest, most hurtful wound at the same time.
A comfort and a vulnerability; an assurance and fear,
A losing and a winning; gaining and letting go.

A day with its twenty-four hours,
One-thousand four-hundred and forty minutes,
Eighty-six thousand four-hundred seconds.
When there is love involved,
You can feel thousands of emotions in a single day.

You can forget it, and remember it.
You can feel grateful and blessed,
And the next moment curse it.
It can bring you joy, and pain a moment later,
Hope, and hopelessness within the same second.

You can submit to it or wave it away.
One moment try to push it out of your mind,
And the next try to relive it as much as you may.
Crave it, vow to give it up.
Be awed by its complexity and confusion,
Sickened by its remorseless, violent nature.
Liken it to softness and sweetness,
And next, a blunt sharp instrument that carves your heart away.

Freedom and confinement at the same time,
The answer and also the maze,
Where you circle your trails all the day long.
The waking up, and the falling asleep.
The beautiful dream of a heavenly garden,
And the fires that purge your sins away.
The salt, and the sugar; the thirst, and the water.
The purpose, and the myth; it’s all of that and even more.

Expressing love, writing about it,
Is the most futile endeavor you will attempt.
For it will cease to be that the moment you put your pencil down.
It’s not a thing, not an emotion, not an event; more of a process.
The smallest molecule and the grandest universe.
All of the shades of colors in existence.
Every hue of the sky between sunrise and sunset.
Every temperature between ice and fire.
You can never describe it unless you accomplish the impossible,
And describe everything in existence all at the same time.


While in the sky, observed the lamps.
Some yellow, some white,
Some narrow and some wide
And watched them like a decorated tree–
The closer I got, the larger they grew.
Observed the shrubbery–
That it did its best to utmost beauty.
Saw the burgundy, and again the yellow.
The burgundy drawing into the yellow.
Even shrubbery has its shades and moods,
A peak, and a draw.
Observed the twigs,
As dark, plain and gloomy as they seem–
A strong contrast from the pale sky–
Even yet I saw that they’re simply
waiting for the weather to turn,
too bloom again.

And observed too, the towering structure–
Its red luminescent lights that make it appear as though
It simply fell from heaven and promises
Its visitors to return them therein.
When evening falls,
All return to their homes.
At some point, the beauty of the world
seems to frighten us.
Wander all you may in open hills and streams,
when the lights diffuse in the sky above,
seek you must a small, warm chamber,
where you dream until the following dawn.

Silence is the loudest of all sounds,
it is filled with your innermost thoughts.
And yet thoughts are just butterflies.
Butterflies you catch, place in your jar,
and observe for a while their beauty and strangeness.
But they belong out there and so you must leave them to roam freely,
where they can touch whom they wish and then fly away.

There are times when the outline of the trees are a net, catching me.
And other times, a warm blanket, hiding me.
I love the lights, though they wouldn’t amuse anyone in a bright room.
It’s only the contrast that makes them attractive.
I observe and love it more when there is none there.
For the lights, the darkness, the branches and the colors are only for I.
The thoughts and emotions they inspire,
Are a piece of music played just for me, or a poem.
No matter how many walk amidst them or watch them,
I know they are loyal to me– what they mean to me,
they will not mean to anyone else.

So I observe too,  that they observe me– wandering about,
being inspired by their every little shiver and dance
in the strengthening wind.
They must feel the wind as I do when it brushes my skin.
Is it some sort of magic that one can be so happy
and content watching a few branches–
its dangling dry leaves, hugging the light of the neighboring lamp?
Life is much like the moment you are walking and watching the trees,
And unexpectedly plays music in your ears.
Wish for nothing and you shall forever be content.
Even delighted.
Get to know the road to your home,
walk in it when no one is there.
You seldom know how beautiful it is.

And there comes the indigo again,
fills up the pale skies like one big ocean.
I hear in the distance the faint sounds of all its travelers,
observing the night as it observes them.
This lamp filled street and how it accompanies you,
do you not get the feeling you are walking down
a large set of luxurious staircases?
You, in immaculate clothes.
your hand gently caresses the stairs as you slowly flow
into a room of lights and shine.
Remember that moment and that smile on your face,
the hope in your eyes.
It was not the clothes that made you beautiful,
or the lights.
It was the hope in your eyes that glossed,
and out-shone all the rest.

Nothing More

The truth of the matter,
Lies in some shadowed corner,
Far away from the candle and its light–
the music and the sight of some intricate design.

There is a longing for the past–
but a past beyond one’s own past,
That despite the illusion of time,
Feels as though it is a part of one’s own lifetime.

Everything beautiful makes me happy.
I find comfort in their appearance.
Things are solid, material, in one’s grasp.
Whereas ideas are as fleeting and invisible as the wind.

There is surely something beyond all this–
A place– distant, clear of all this.
It’s normal to forget it and only remember it,
When the work of some inspired individual reminds of it.

Accomplished in one’s own way,
But can’t help but know that there are aspects of life,
That are as foreign to me as a never seen distant world,
And the thought of lacking in that way, causes great shame and worry.

Isn’t destiny much like a final, completed composition?
–of musical notes that cannot be altered or varied,
And the experience of it depends solely
On the ability to follow all the notes?

It only makes sense then, and not only that.
It isn’t enough to hear it in order, and complete,
But rather, also to accept it, and feel pleasure in it.
That is the test and resolution of each and every single one.

And it’s not that all moments,
continue in emotional uproars.
The silence of not being disappointed,
can easily be interpreted as peace.

The altering, right decisions of life,
will never approach you as questions.
You shall never be given the option,
–never to choose or to decide.

They arrive to you already decided,
Leaving to you nothing more than
The option to accept and find contentment.
Or to struggle until you revert to the former.

You will never need to ponder.
Your gaze will never have to seek the horizons,
You will never have to worry about the tea going cold,
Or the tear falling on the wrong page of your book.

One morning, you shall wake up,
Just as you did the morning before,
Simply knowing what it is.
No other possibilities, and nothing more.

Sunset and the Moon


The sun set spectacularly today — its hues varied like never before.
How did it manage to create so many shades of colors?
How did it manage to be dark and light at the same time?
And the moon standing right across from her,
watched her enter the room, her beauty– simultaneously simple and complex.
Her bright rays and gloomy shades overpowered the surroundings,
left all else gaping away. The moon– awestruck– gazed at her for long,
and when she finally set and disappeared with all her forlorn,
he hid behind misty clouds and became a recluse for the remainder of the night.


“…even this winter day—grim, yet so delicate-looking, so spiritual—striking emotional, impalpable depths, subtler than all the poems, paintings, music, I have ever read, seen, heard.” — Walt Whitman, Prose Works, 1892

Dousing fires with oil.
What you cover up– desires coiled.
Pretending, hiding wants and needs
with numerous things that are less valuable, less dear.
Does it make them go away, or make them deeper still?
You, me, all of humanity– wondrous actors and pretenders.
The audience and the player are one and the same;
we trick not others but only ourselves.
Inevitably, somewhere, sometime,
the words of some distant poet who no longer lives,
reminds you of your longing–deep inside you still.
Its mellow sweet pain that reminds you,
that you continue to feel.