Tag Archives: writing

Scared. Frightened. And not afraid.


Scared. Frightened. And not afraid.

Involved. Immersed. And not drowning.

Bitter. Sad. And not depressed.

Enraged. Annoyed. And not angry.

Unseeing. Eyeless. And not blind.

Ill. Impaired. And not sick.

Useless. Vain. And not futile.

Mute. Speechless. And not silent.

Demolished. Crushed. And not broken.

Far. Gone. And not away.

*Painting – Scarecrow by Candido Portinari (1959)

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Not nibbled by mosquitoes


Not nibbled by mosquitoes
but killed by a lion.
A mountain in the meadows,
not nibbled by mosquitoes.
Light touching, throwing shadows.
Breath – longer than an aeon.
Not nibbled by mosquitoes
but killed by a lion.


*Painting “Lion Licking Its Paw” by Henry Ossawa Tanner, 1886.


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Not even for nothing*


Triumph of pain – treachery of the eyes, the ears, the skin. One has to trudge through this desert all one’s life. To see and to hear. To hear and see. To eat. To laugh. To talk, smoke, drink. To feel. To procreate. To write. To breathe. To be in pain. To bleed, to tremble. To be angry. To suffer. To cry out, to sleep, to wait. Fatigue is everywhere. There is no way, really no way of avoiding it. One has to toil, to feel hot, to feel cold. To caress. To enjoy. To understand, to understand without pause. Every day. Like that, every day, without exception. To urinate. To taste. To let oneself be carried away by useless words. To adopt paces and habits. To seek for phrases, to stretch one’s ears and eyes, to stretch one’s skin. To pretend to love, to love really, perhaps. All that, not even for nothing; for it’s not even possible to resort to nothingness so as to determine one’s life; man is not alone; vulgar, garish things inhabit him, shape him. There’s no way of judging. There is no absurdity, for there is not even any separation between what is and what ought to be. God, if he exists, must be left in full control: never, no, never, shall we really know what a little worm man is.

*The text above is taken from the story “A day of old age” written by J.M.G. Le Clezio.


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You pass me by


I walk the street. You pass me by.
Our eyes meet. You pass me by.
We laugh, we smile.You pass me by.
And all this while you pass me by.

Seconds run and pass me by.
One by one. They pass me by.
Silently they pass me by.
For what, I ask, they pass me by?

Stop, I beg, don’t pass me by.
Walk nearby, don’t pass me by.
Unknowingly you pass me by.
Why do you always pass me by?

Let us rest and pass me by.
Be my guest and pass me by.
Bravely go and pass me by.
Don’t look back and pass me by.


*Painting “Harlequinade” by Albert Bloch, 1911.


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Goodnight I say to you, my morning



Goodnight I say to you, my morning.
How was your day, I greet the night.
In this life, what’s worth exploring?
Is there something worth a fight?

Goodnight I say to you, my sunshine.
How was your day, I greet the gloom.
Close to my lips I hold a glass of wine
and sip it slowly till I reach my tomb.

Goodnight I say to you, my sunrise.
How was your life, I greet the dead.
Ignore the ground, ignore the skies,
what matters most is in your head.

Goodnight I say to you, my summer.
How was the snow, I greet the spring.
My piercing eyes fell into a slumber.
I cannot see clearly any thing.

Good morning I say to you, my late hour.
How was your night, I greet the day.
On nonsense I’ve spent my time and power,
while hoping to prolong this decay.


*Painting “Morning” by Caspar David Friedrich.


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Words, do not leave me, please


Words, do not leave me, please.
Stay with me and hold me close.
Words, I beg you on my knees.
Words, do not leave me, please.
Words, come and be at ease.
Say something that no one knows.
Words, do not leave me, please.
Stay with me and hold me close.

*Painting “Pheidippides giving word of victory” by Luc-Olivier Merson, 1869.

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Raindrops beating upon my face


Raindrops beating upon my face
as the wind outside is whistling.
The sun has fled without a trace,
With thorns my life is bristling.

Shadows move around in dance
as snowflakes drift from the silent sky.
Lost in my thoughts I walk in a trance,
Is there more than meets the eye?

Oceans full with shallow waters
as mountains sing sweet lullabies.
Tell me, friend, what really matters,
what’s worth to know and memorize?

Darkness looms through deserted lands
as rainbows greet the passersby.
Whose footprints run into these sands?
So far away and yet nearby.

Broken candles burning brightly
but all my rooms are dimly lit.
I close my eyes ever so slightly
to see the light that I emit.


*Painting “Man Standing, Arms Extended” by Paul Cezanne, 1878.


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