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?




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!


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?


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



the fruit of love #night fantasy


the juicy fruit of love lies open on a heavy silver tray: its pulp is orange, and its seeds are red

under the alabaster moon, like in the mist of secret sermons, your humid fingers design blue petals on my fragile body

drapes made from the feathers of forgotten purple honey-creepers sleep virginly into the breeze coming from the west

on checkered marble tiles cicadas sing the first Chopin nocturne in B minor

little fairies with big eyes dance tarantella in the air

i see into the purple of your lips the shadow of the woman you will love

don’t move

let me watch the little fairies eating from the fruit of love

when they are done we’ll run into the meadows where trees sleep, and rivers stretch like cats

there on the silky grass will bite together from the alabaster moon

and our love

into another century will bloom


geisha’s pleasures #poetry


it must be January for cherry blossoms open their wings

and melt into the pleasure quarters of your dreams

my face is painted in the purest white

carnations are my lips grown in the dark

my ornaments are birds of paradise

my body sleek

my eyes unspoken fantasies

oh, how well i know your eagerness to bite

you roar and toss on purple sheets

like tigers kept in cages for too long

don’t you know

that in the month of January

the earth cages the sun

my skin remains untouched

my joy is unconfined

and all I am is art?

i’m smiling…

what pleasures do you think that a geisha has in mind?


note: on Japan’s southern, subtropical islands, cherry blossoms open as early as January.


Love in Venice #Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers


“Would you like to remain in Venice forever?”

He looks at me. His eyes green, his hair dark like the depths of the tropical forest in inky nights when the moon never shows.

I bite my lip.

“Oh, no, but someday I would love to live here for an entire winter.”

“And what would you do?”

“I will walk every night in Piazza San Marco, at that very moment when the silence becomes so permeable that my steps can be heard from the moon. I will look for a new love in the heated, mysterious, thrilling nights of the carnival: changing mask after mask, dress after dress, smile after smile, pain after pain. Every morning I will mix secret essences of perfumes, seeking for the one that could revive the mystique of my body, intoxicate my soul, empower my mind. Every twilight I will dive in the coolness of the Adriatic sea; my body shivering, my soul revived. In the night I will go to consult astrologer after astrologer in the less known quarters of the city.”

I stop.

I look at him. His eyes engulfed by passion, his dark hair touched by a mellow breeze.

The sound of a church bell tears apart the moist air.

He whispers:

“Tonight there is party at the Doge’s Palace. Would you like to come with me?”

“I am not going to parties anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I died long time ago, by mistake. Now I am just a Venetian mask.”

For a moment he looks flabbergasted.

His lips try to bite into mine. In a flash, I avoid them.




Love #excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers


A sky of gray and pink tones was descending upon us. The ocean was petrified, its agitated face morphed into an immense silent mirror. A heavy silence was flowing between the high clouds and the water, meandering like a black venomous snake in a humid jungle.

Sitting on the shore, bewitched by love, none of us moved or spoke.

After a while, Miquel said:

“I stood up to my own God for you, Clara. When I will leave this world, I want you to know that will not kneel in front of Him to beg for forgiveness. If I have to burn in hell, so be it. Love has nothing to apologize for.”

He felt silent.

His green brilliant were eyes scrutinizing the horizon.

For some reason he looked to me like a new version of Columbus determined to reach the East Indies, and instead ending up in San Salvador. Was it better?

I turned toward him. Drops of water were trickling on his neck.

Was it raining, or was I crying?


fated cravings #poetry


i was born under the salty light of underwater stars

the air was filled with songs of yellow chrysanthemums

when autumn leaves were burning

the neurotic passions of forgotten lovers

three fates surrounded silently my rosewood cradle

the Spinner threaded all my life from purple silk

her fingers soft like autumnal blisses

her lips a nest of loving birds

the Allotter gave me the sensuality of painted nudes

which interrupt the sanctity of times when church bells toll

the Inevitable fated me with your aquatic soul

and since then I have been craving for your body

liked wisdom craves for ancient scrolls


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.