He is the hour the streetlamp flickers once
and decides to stay lit anyway.

Born in 1963 — thin ice, louder radios —
he carries in his palms fourteen thousand small rescues.

Each poem a sparrow lifted from the road
before the next truck arrives.

Each canvas a heart that refused to clot.
Three black moons live in his house —
Chai, Notsu, Earl —

walking velvet paws across unfinished lines,
sleeping in the margins where mercy hides.

He peels old names from skin
like labels from jars of forgotten jam
and writes on the raw place: still sweet.

When the world shouts its own importance
he listens instead to the hush between breaths,
to snow falling on graves never dug,
to rubber boots that once held tiny heads
and still remember how.

He does not shout.
He simply continues —
a slow, stubborn blooming
in the cracked concrete of the century.
eprobles is not a monument.

He is the wind that moves the monument
just enough
to let light fall where it was never meant to fall.

Tonight, in the small room where the cats are dreaming,
he writes again —
because the world is still turning,
and someone has to witness
that it turns with tenderness.

:: 01.12.2026 ::