bullfighter (matador de toros) #poetry

my dress is red
your heart is pounding
the passion of all matadors de toros
is bleeding from your arms into my veins
your eyes flame every soul in Salamanca
your fight is dance
your body burns
the bull is raging
flesh is cracking
roses from my hair fall on your wounds
stars are deaf
eternity is stopping

now i scribble words in lonely Sundays
echoes of bullfights in Salamanca
in the bells’ tolling was our beginning
and in your fight was our end


image: Fresnel/ Shutterstock


i can’t win #poetry

i hang flowers in the trees

i grow hands to heal all wounds

at my feet the forest sings

naked love from Saturn’s rings

rains on poppies in the fields

i move forward

and i mix

boiling teas with saps of passion

i coil laurels on your body

i knit kisses on your lips


fruits are bursting into blood

winds are choked by mounds of pyre

you’re not here

i can’t win

for the rifle will still fire


The Woman Before Me #Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

“Clara, I did not tell you about the woman who Miguel loved before you.”

“Go ahead Angelo, I can’t wait to hear.”

My eyes pierced into his; in the streets an orange sunset was fighting for its life like a deer caught in the jaws of an enormous anaconda; tired bodies were floating in the middle of the fight; ships on an angry sea.

“Clara, Miguel was in love with a girl born in Buenos Aires. Her name was Helen.

Can you imagine that? Buenos Aires!

The city of Rosas, red ribbons hanging on military uniforms, people screaming death to utilitarianism on every street corner, telluric pampas striving to conquer the city, biting from it…

Ah, I can’t remember the name of the building from which Perón used to speak every year!”

I looked at him in disbelief.

“Angelo, what does Helen have to do with all this? Everything happened long time ago.”

“Oh, but she had a lot to do with…”


The sunset lost the battle; the night was breathing satisfied; stretches of a full anaconda digesting its prey.

“Clara, you are not listening anymore!”

“No, I’m not. And if Miguel is not here in five minutes I’ll start singing Don’t cry for me Argentina and strangle you in the middle of the street, Angelo!”

“Ah, you wouldn’t do this, Clara!”

“No? Watch me!”


I shivered.

There was no Helen.

Miguel never was in a relationship with a woman named Helen.

What was Angelo trying to tell me?

And where was Miguel?




hunter #poetry

the destiny that calls me
will have to wait tonight
for i am hunting Judas
and i am hunting Brutus
blood boils in my veins
i’m sharpening my arrows
i strangulate the time
i coil around your body
i’m pregnant with desires
the Mount of Olives cries
my hands are fighting lions
the mystery of me
is bursting into fires



Love Call #morning fantasy

I awake under the cap of a mushroom.

Its spores surround me like stalactites hanging from the ceiling of a cave.

Rubbing his forewings, a cricket chirps.

Is that you calling for me?

I know it’s you. You must be hiding in the grass!

Come out!

Every evening I’ll bathe your body in milk and honey.

Every morning I’ll dress you in a cloak woven from mulberry silk. I’ll grow wings around your ankles, so you can fly above the Himalayas.

Late night I’ll rub ginger oil onto your skin; every stalactite will fall in love with you.

At midnight when the Siamese purrs on my left thigh, I’ll dip my fingers into rose oil and mend your wounds.

We’ll kiss in the fragrance of leaves, roots, and ripened berries.

Why aren’t you answering?

Where are you hiding?

Come out!



image: bruniewska/Shutterstock


Lonely Sundays #midnight fantasy

Tears from the ankle of an iceberg fell on my body.

They crust on my skin like cold wax on a rack of votive candles.

Seconds hurt like lonely Sundays.

I lie in bed.

A canopy of wild roses scents the air.

My dreams burn like your body used to burn in our nights of love.

I feel you.

The pupils of my eyes dilate under the gravity of time.

Mercury and Venus turn the wheels of love.

Crusts of wax melt on the silky sheets.

Your kisses bloom violet waterlilies on my skin.

I taste figs and wild forest.

The wing of an egret covers us.

The room moves on another parallel.

Is it morning?

Is it Sunday?

Where are you?



image: bruniewska/Shutterstock


Love in blue and black – A collab — Despite my deepest thoughts

Poetry and music: a collaboration with my dear friend Ankit 

my love,

i speak to you through centuries of pain

trees are spinning barren branches in the air

when loneliness rains on blue hills

i crush my heart

so yours can still beat


ocean waves embrace the moon’s pale chest

instead of tears

i shed naked pearls

so i can wash the effigy of your acoustic agony

and mend the painful scratches from your skin

with my imaginary fingers

in blue and black the time i bend

and no matter who i am

a human or a spirit

i swear to you

i’ll love you till the end.



Untranslated Love — Vita Brevis

My poem “Untranslated Love” published in Vita Brevis

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

Submitted by short-prose-fiction 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 […]

via Untranslated Love — Vita Brevis