What we lose today is but a tiny chunk of what we build

with such care and earnestness,

Lost days always look shiny,

But those from future yield

High hopes and nothing else.

We build many little dreams,

and forget that there is just one road narrow and scary.

We curse the road

And reward the ferry.

And the distance goes dizzying

Footsteps are scarce,

and our constant worrying

Makes the passage worse.

But what we lose

After all, is nothing

But the heap of our great flaws

We call adventures,

And Our greatest accomplice

We call soul.



Ce matin, c’est comme si je souffle

comme un vent subtil,

et je vol dans mon propre vent

comme une feuille d’automne…

je ne sais par où je vais tomber

à côté de quel rêve sombre,

près de la maison de qui,

mais je sais un nouveau vent vindrait me…



My every October waking has been a new search, I know not for exactly what, or what the search terms are, or what the results may look like.

And my every day is a constant effort to reopening myself to new avenues of life of thought of never returning; to new possibilities, probabilities, creations, or perhaps the inverse: my way of making life more adventurous.

And boy, adventure tastes great! I find it so soul-empowering; it encourages acceptance, & enlivens living like nothing else. More & more, I’m realising that ‘acceptance’ is like a nuclear power for the mind. Taking things as they unfolds an ocean of energy, an outburst of true happiness, an odyssey of life!

Photo by Timothy Eberly on Unsplash



A mind-blowing view

it was me, me was us: I knew

It takes a mind-blower

To fully fill the view

With touches and whispers.

A breath-taking view were you

But was I a breath taker…

I recall not, nor a giver

I was breath-taken




four grayhounds howl outside the whitened

Yuriatin midnight-

and the fierce winter wind

passes thrashing the desolated village,

much like the war that came

in devasting footsteps

and left the fear-ridden souls

with nothing but yearning even deeper,

for what?

maybe a greener horizon, renewal of love…

whatever dream the ink is capable of dreaming,

or was taught to invoke

in the freezing memory of the withering writer

who is still a soldier in uniform,

but a refugee in his poems…


20:29 pm




author, poet, photographer, artist, data analyst, linguist… ………and last but not least ……… .… a failed priest…….