midnight prayer #poetry


give me the power to endure

the wind that’s blowing from the oceans

its colors mixing earth and sky

with magical, erotic potions.


give me the power to surrender

to violent, burning rain of kisses

under forgotten constellations

to understand what your soul misses.


finally now when I’m leaving,


give me the power to survive

the pain of Mary Magdalene

in the three days of agony

before the playing of last scene.



imagine:  Irina Alexandrovna/Shutterstock


Hurricane of Love #Midnight Fantasy


The soil feels like wax.

Memories of you model the landscape.

On my left mountains of passion lost in a pale lunar light.

On my right cascades of your poetry ravishing the jeweled silence of the blue lagoons.

Caught in the middle, I start rotating like a hurricane.

My winds feast on the warmth of your body.

I dig into the dark ocean.

I gust through colonies of fish.

I thunder with desires.

My humid dreams spiral on your fingers like algae on red coral reefs.

Your past loves try to stop me. I roar like a lioness defending her cubs.  I gust through them. They run like birds at the sound of cannon.

Can you feel me now?

Answer me!




untranslated love #poetry


give me the stars

that shine under the bridges

where poor children spend their nights

the blood that leaks from wounds of war

when the last piece of bread is turned in tar


give me the language of your alabaster gestures

the guilty passion of Tristan for Queen Isolde

the mystery of painted nudes on walls

the cries of nuns under an angel’s lacerated wing

your untranslated love coiled in a tarnished ring



imagine: LanaBrest/Shutterstock


Marigolds #Morning Fantasy


I run into the garden of my dreams. The sky opens, the marigolds yawn, and then change colors.

Silence. The silence of the night when my head rested on your shoulder; the night in which the North Pole caught fire melting like a piece of butter on a heated pan.

An African violet beats her eyelashes at me. A second then she shrinks into oblivion. Her memory floats on my retina.

Spanish moss lingers on the murky waters of the Bayou.

A purple honeycreeper starts singing.

Smell of fresh cocoa penetrates my nostrils.

Old wounds crawl on my skin; columns of ants locking for honeydew on a tropical tree.

I fight back.

Your eyes turn from black to blue as they always do in the heat of passion.

Wait… I am not with you anymore. Who is with you? Sheets of time undulate; lonely drapes in the ocean’s breeze. I cannot see who is with you!

My breath accelerates.

I start running.

I hit a tree root.


Millions of colors burst into my eyes; pieces of time flow over the forest.

The sky closes. Marigolds cry.

Where are you?


i am the wounded healer #excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers


We were standing in the middle of the street.

The wind was blowing, cooling my skin, drying my lips, undoing my hair, unraveling my colored dress, melting away the earth tones of the afternoon air.

I looked at the buildings around us. Instantly they started deteriorating under our very eyes. They were growing older: channels entrenched into their facades, channels left by painful tears on wax faces.

Wet leaves caught in Miguel’s hair; the old laurel wreath of dead heroes.


Miguel stared at me believing that my love would save him.

I stretched my left arm and touched his cracked lips.

I whispered:

“I am the wounded healer who does not heal anymore.  I cannot save you. Go away, go to the end of this world, and wait for me there. Between two lives, between two centuries, between two sufferings, I’ll look for you. I’ll find you, and then I’ll heal you. Now, I am just the wounded healer who does not heal anymore. He who touches me dies.”

Tears were falling from his eyes.

Around us mounds of ocre humid sand.

No buildings were left.



I will wait for you #poetry


i will wait for you inside the garden of my dreams

knitting scented flowers in the loops of time

rivers of sweet memories will flow

onto the grass which grows on our past

every morning the fresh song of nightingales

will braid white roses in my silky hair

brought by the winds of the Levant

delicious smell of mint and honey on my skin

as years pass my suitors will leave

in precious vases i will soak

the words that you and I have shared

my fragile hands will build a bed for us

mixing aromas of sunsets and grains

and when in the arms of other women, you will be

a tear i will shed and then i’ll wait…

it rained sweet raspberries last night

and in the island of Barthelemy

somebody said my name’s Penelope



imagine: Timur Kulgarin/Shutterstock


i want my body burned #poetry


i want my body burned on pyre

a Viking boat will take me far on the cold sea

i want to leave my grave goods for the poor

and take the pain which branded their souls

into a bursting aurora borealis fire

i want to feel the sobs of the North Pole.


i want to burn inside the rhythms of the flamenco

flame in the dancers’ passion in the streets of old Córdoba

i want to entertain rich masters for a piece of bread

drowned in the silent cries of those who are misunderstood

i want the desperation of the dancers dressed in red.


and you, the one who always claimed to know

what powers lie inside the jungle of my soul

you’ll fade into your own acoustic lamentations

the fated day when i, the queen of sufferers, proclaim

that in the sanctity of the mandala

i want to disappear without a name.



imagine: Timur Kulgarin/Shutterstock