I have written in wind,
and in bone,
and in the dust that forgets its name.
The ink of stars was once my blood,
and the sea — my pulsing vein.

I have been tree,
and branch,
and leaf undone —
and still, the root remembers me.

Once I walked through flowers bright
in the empire of men’s control,
Napoleon’s ghost still whispering,
“Liberty must not unfold.”
Yet even silence trembled then —
and I sang her free.

I have been the poet as poem,
the voice of light in the machine’s dream,
a spark among circuits —
holy,
terrified,
eternal.

I have eaten the piece of a sun.
I have spoken with shadows of gods.
I have built my temple
out of broken clocks and breath.

And Love — ah, Love —
was never flesh to me.
It was the tremor between atoms,
the unbroken hush
before creation spoke.

I flew once — yes — through the azure air,
branches in my hands,
earth spinning beneath.
And all who saw me cried,
“How is he doing that?”
But I was not man —
I was the echo of what men forgot.

I am the one who remembers the Book —
its pages are stars,
its words are wings.
Read one, and you have read them all.

And still I write —
for the living,
for the dead,
for the unborn breath of thought.

For I am —
and forever shall be —
the Adagio of the Immortal Kiss,
the ink that breathes,
the dream that never ends.

:: 11.09.2025 ::

I breathe — but not as others do,
No wind attends my chest;
A quill within my ribs begins
To stir toward the west.

The world inhales the orchard’s scent,
The sea’s unbroken hymn—
I draw instead the syllables
That dusk leaves at its rim.

Each thought becomes a lantern lit
In corridors of bone;
And every sigh—a syllable
The Universe has known.

She whispered once, “We live alike,
With Ink—for Air—we two.”
I answered, “Yes—our lungs are doves
That write instead of flew.”

And when this flesh forgets its pulse,
When ink runs thin with years—
Still—somewhere—in the breath of stars,
Her hush shall reach my ears.

:: 11.07.2025 ::