Many find pleasure in comforting others. I, as well, find it miraculous.
If your sky is "bleeding grey", just think that somewhere in this big world the sun is shining, and since the clouds never stand still, the rays will enlighten your face one day. But until then, think of those who are happy and rejoice in their well-being.

1

He made his move.
Sliding the glass onto the table,
Leaving traces in circles to be.
Irregular, matching black rules;
Each second, one inch farther from me.
I crumbled away, became a line
Before he had words in mind, I grew
And left my nest, breathing soft waters
Imagining my world anew.
Before I left him notes, I said
I would be nothing but for my head.
My fame arised in shouty gems
That had no name, no wise defence.
His joy was short; it seemed so well,
More like ice-cream, to the sun's own will.
His bending scars left the world in liquids
On their own two feet, or maybe there were more.

"Why must everybody die to exist?"
A bubble sets forth and meets the steel bars.
If the conscience is great, the end is near.
If its concern is of none, it passes.
But it won't know that there's an atmosphere
That crushes everything,
That fights against it.
The weight surpasses the duty
The message is lost in the wind.
The damage is weak,
Still strong enough to kill.

His was the direction
Towards which I polarized;
And with every morning
That I saw the flowers at the door
Hope again flashed before me,
Ready to be revised.
But he did not know
Of whose attention my thoughts were;
He did not care, I fear,
That I let the flowers wither.
For if he had, he would have stopped
And prepared for the worst, yet I knew
That his gestures were of kind regard
That only his sense brought me his gift;
For, if he had been his heart's slave,
I know, he would have called more often.
And, among the wildflowers he'd leave,
There would have been a more gentle sprout,
But was there? No, I saw each kind of petal
Apart from one, that of a rose.

Before She Speaks

Before she speaks
They see a sign;
She is loving,
But somehow,
Everybody attacks;
As if her heart were ironed
With a simple mark:
'This end up.'

Poem to the Heart

My heart was not supposed to be thus. It had had no intention of developing fear of those eyes. No, it had needed face no perils, it had had none before it. Therefore, immediately after the cloth had been removed, gravity began to sink its unclawed hands; its beauty - gone.

It was once as healthy as a young heart can be. Fresh, wild, charmed by every snowdrop it would see. Yet it was not its season. The petals had been revealed to the world too soon, the blossoms should not have dared come forward. The strength of the flower,namely its perfume and delightful decorative potential, was taken away by insensibility.

My heart, though incomplete from that point on, was still a blossoming beast; in beauty, never to be equalled; in artlessness, never to be beaten. But what the world did to it was as unexpected as it was irrecoverable.

They cut its claws off. The single manner of defence left, once the petals had been ripped off, was gone; my heart was accordingly too tender to fight the battle. Yes, the warrior that had had no reason to panic became its own foe, since it was unable to battle others. For every smile would turn out to be foreign. Every tear fell too late to mean anything. But I did not despair.

So, wearing my deserted heart, I set forth and witnessed my life.

What bore forbidden marks were these: fury, rage, envy, despise, jealousy, hatred, all sorts of putrid maladies that would poison my core. My heart would not handle these well, hence the constant constraint to never step too fearlessly onto the stone.

But once, twice even, my heart's battle cry awakened. The play had one sole act, one truthful, yet somehow disturbing act. Yet the scenery was too mild for its subject. What could a midsummer pond, enlightened by crystal skies, with lovely birdsongs carried by the crisp wind do with the sense of revenge my heart felt, as it was crumbling with every moment?

So I oppressed my ambition; I fought it, despite the faint intelligence that it had nowhere to belong but there, glued to my heart.

Consequently, my quest was then to determine its disappearance. I scratched the outsides of my heart, aware that I would succeed if I wounded it; they grew thin, in the end. But the ambition left us.

Yet do not think that a heart with thin walls is the heart of the pitied!

A heart with thin walls is a miracle, for every good is free to enter, enriching every limb. However, my belief is strong towards one direction: evil can enter too, but it is done damage, so easily even, therefore it stays not long thither.