Broken Mirror by Jacques Prévert


That small man who always sang
That small man who danced in my head
That small man with youth
Undid his shoelaces
And broke all the barracks of the festival
Suddenly everything collapsed
And in the silence of the festival
In the ruin of the festival
I heard your happy voice
Your voice so torn and fragile
Innocent and desolate
Came from afar and called me
And I put my hands on my chest
where they trembled bloody
Seven broken pieces of mirror
with your twinkling smile.


(translation from French)

tea house in spring (II)

the little shrine
is all azaleas…
spring rain

(Kobayashi Issa)



warm floral stream stains thyme’s leaves
and the indoor winged wind is musing
a reflection of velvet sunset vault
blurred with violet clouds
channeling a mirthful golden chaos
threaded by thunder filaments
and the rustle of evening leaves
on the eve of nocturnal silence
as he contemplates the unity of opposites,
a vivid light and vague darkness,
while the day wilts for the night to reign
and tenderness sleeps in the eye of the storm;


and through his mind’s evanescent haze
a pool of heart’s shine flows an alchemy,
its taste a captured rush of deeper lakes
from the sphere of azalea shrines
where a laughter of newborn flowers
subtly dews soft grass
and cyan shadows illuminate
the song of seasons.


the beyond resonates
within here and now.





(yelena 2014)





beautiful disaster

i whisper poems to ruins and walls
the way your hands tell the story in silence
beneath a subtle wind, a morning breeze born along the sad sea
when april days soften their cool breath and fade
towards bittersweet purple nights;

i see you as a blooming, unfading apparition
in hours heavy with roses, stilled and starred,
as the mist clouds our wounds growing confessions

and you ask
‘can you imagine sun beauty shape the day into fresh earth
shining a little fire from within?’

and i don’t have words to answer
because your voice tastes like spring rain
and something too irresistible
from the shifting world of space and light.

you are the pulse of life, the warmth of eyes
the candle of moon and
a vesper witness to the birth of Chopin’s skies.

i’m shadowed yet shimmering.

can it be like this when i’m in your arms,
when you long to fall and i long to fly?




(yelena 2014)

tea house in spring

grey remnants of winter vanish
in argent mist, towards a thawing river
where fresh cherry blossoms
shape magic lanterns with pink fragrance
and chambers of the forest
shelter a secret periwinkle chime;
and how serene is the ebb and flow of morning,
arisen from the cradle of stars to precede the day,
when he draws lily moons on rice paper
smiling, then stirring a little lemon sun
into the chamomile and honey remedy
while a tempest fades in his downcast eyes
and the shimmering calm dawns,
as from the outside a firefly’s flight forecasts
a healing myrrh of april rain
and the whole earth longs to whirl
a litany of tears away to the valley
of lilac chants and a nightingale’s whisper


..and the sky, a golden-blue lotus
blooming with stillness and light.




(yelena 2014)


(the collaboration with my dear poet friend Nightmute– this time we dared to travel into much darker realms…inspired by the fantastic Lacuna Coil song “Our truth’)



Blizzard plays with strands of hair,

and glass-eyed, I am left to stare

at the remains left wickedly whipping;

keening winds, my skin is ripping.

Desperation comes to call, despair

seizes me, and I’m fully aware

of a lifetime spent in sin.

Crippled, yet I won’t give in.

Chunks of change, of Time, etched on

a face Fear cracked, my beauty gone,

stabbed with the knife of disillusion,

viewed through spectral eyes, confusion

dawns, so cruel, the stroke.

Sweated vapor rises from me like smoke.



Torment, rue the day my mouth

opened sideways, speaking South

when North’s not found to be so true,

where unwinged ghosts malign my view.

Linger, dead flowers, inked on places

where once-breathed dreams contain the faces

of loved ones bled so true;

can’t stop the chill, send cash in lieu

of Storm’s ensuing flowering bloom.

This blossom colored, then lost, makes room

for a subterranean feel with traces, flow

of smoldering hope on primal snow,

etched on this face, in hideous gloom.

Blinding white amid the gathering brume.



Coming at me, their blades unchaste,

hunt me, confront me with too much haste.

Eclipse the day, twisted flame-driven waste,

along the air with an inferno-tortured taste.

Consuming time, eating flesh,

wanting to taste my bones, so fresh.



Can’t see, can’t be, can’t hope, can’t breathe!

My intestines roil, my emotions seethe.

Ashed over again, trapped deep inside

with haunting ever-unquenched fire, denied.

Rebellion fills my pumping veins,

I grasp at sky even as it wanes.

Won’t fall, won’t stall, ain’t gonna crawl

through this wicked, wintry squall.



Watch me sweetly bleed myself

upon thy ribbon’d, rasping tongue.

Watch me sweetly, while you bat

an uncaring eye at the song I’ve sung.

Throw a wink and offer a grin

in the midst of my troublesome throes.

Catch the slamming, demeaning lid

of my sarcophagus, exposing my woes.

And whisper, then, so sweetly, Love,

with lips of tainted wine,

“It is I who hast ever Loved thee, Dear.

‘Tis so, to thee, I pine”.



Blizzard plays and I struggle on

with Truth revealed, the blade is drawn

across my vision, scything white;

in blindness, I’m broken, within your blight.