On the other hand, there were numerous moments of joy meant to compensate for my loses, sculpting my life's balance on that secret agreement.

could I have been dreaming? still my life has been a trip
between seas and lands. I've tasted memories and I forgot.

the only true memory of myself is in the image of my shadows.
Now, I have to decide.

Paths, railways, stations, rosy clouds; they
are catching up.


The tiger springs in the new year. Us he devours. Think at last
We have not reached conclusion, when I
Stiffen in a rented house. Think at last
I have not made this show purposelessly
And it is not by any concitation
Of the backward devils
I would meet you upon this honestly.

T.S. Eliot. Poems 1920: Gerontion.


"stay for some moments, then take off again", he whispered to himself. 'Where to this time?', we asked in awe.
"let me reflect for a while..hm..."
He took his cup of tea with him, turned his back on us, walked away.
His attitude left us in a silent and warmly aroused room that took off as
a common spacecraft.


We began to look around: planets were passing us by. How suddenly had we turned into the woods.


Like trees, humans are either deciduous or indeciduous.

We can understand both, they both need water and love.
So, isn't there any difference? No, it would never have been this way;
if only
we were humane.


how could we have seen clearly behind the rising cloud of shadows?

we smashed with our hands some laughter

"Let alone, we said, the child inside us grow". We thought
there were things to become clear in time.

The child we've become sees clearly inside the darkness.


the contrast

it won't be long now
the hour to grow life inside this narrow semi-world we live in;
not only do keep hope now
but strengthen it even.


once I decided to go back. It was not a retreat nor a fearsome dream. It was a breath in early morning.

So I decided there was that responsibility for me towards life: to make it true. And I soon thought it had some relation with my location.

So I tried to think about my place and also my time. And there was plenty to find out. Still there is more than I can bear.


sometimes, the piano pretends to invite birds to sing.

but most recently, it invites people and their memories to come to the open. We gather: the one who wrote, the one who marked, the one playing, narrating and telling in sounds and whispers, the ones who listen, the ones who remember, the ones who turn out to be entirely new.. :)

someone felt he run across years of life with great speed, only to find the acute sounds of disappointment and then the progressive, healing sound of astonishment: happiness.