My love in winter
Not every nightare equally darknor do they have dead lifeleaning on their windowsills not all sunriseswake up brightnor do they explode in colorsof exciting hope. the wet floor after the
Steps
When the soul cries and the steps hesitate under the dull weight of mere existence, I stumble upon something beautiful that hides in the most unexpected corner. A melody, a
To a dead demonstrator
My father was a poet and journalist. He suffered a lot during WWII. Almost all his friends and all his brothers died young during those horrible years. He was taken
Tich
Tich was our canary. He was small and yellow and sang like an angel. We loved him dearly. He lived in a big cage in our living room. When I
Inside
Today, tell us about the home you lived in when you were twelve. For your twist, pay attention to — and vary — your sentence lengths. I’m afraid of the
Ink and oil
Ink and oil. From the printer machine. A smell that means Dad had taken me with him to check his last book’s printing or to the newsroom. I love being with Dad. … Continue readingInk and oil